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AN 

INQUIRY 



££21 



3 7-^2- 

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INTO THE 

NATURE AND EXTENT 

OF 

POETICK LICENCE, 

By N. A. VIGORS, jun. Esq. 



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fa.\uyvvw}j,iv . Plut. de audiend. Poet. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR J. MACKINLAY, 87, STRAND, 

BY T. BENSLEY, BOLT COURT, FLEET STREET. 

1810. 



INTRODUCTION, 



Among the works of invention, which are 
intended to promote the convenience, or in- 
crease the elegancies of society, the compo- 
sitions of the Fine Arts are distinguished by a 
marked peculiarity in their end and execu- 
tion. As they are directed to the object of 
contributing to the gratification, not of ad- 
ministering to the necessities of mankind, 
they seem, by their nature, to claim an ex- 
emption from that exactness and regularity 
of representation, which characterize the 
works of mere utility. Pursuing thus a pe- 
culiar end, they have been indulged in pe- 
culiar immunities; and to such an extent has 
the right of their professors to these exclusive 
privileges been acknowledged, that they have 
been allowed to heighten their delineations 
by such adscititious or imaginary embellish- 
ment, as, lying beyond the boundaries of 
nature and reality, appear more calculated to 
awaken our interest, or add to our delight. 

B 



2 

But among the arts, thus privileged by 
universal suffrage, poetry not only stands the 
first in point of rank, but preserves this eleva- 
tion in nearly the same degree of superiority, 
as their productions surpass the inferiour 
works of invention. The powers by which 
the less exalted of these sister arts excite 
the emotions of taste, are nearly limited 
to the use they are enabled to make of ma- 
terial objects; they may be almost said to 
find their verge terminate where there is no 
beauty or sublimity of colour, sound, or form. 
But not only all the sublimity and beauty of 
matter, but of mind, come under the poet's 
controul ; he not only raises a new creation 
more novel, more fanciful, and more perfect 
than exists any where in reality; he not only 
animates his scenery with characters, but 
informs his characters with sentiments, and 
endows them with language suitable to their 
ideal existence. Indeed poetry in its ima- 
gery, excels the other fine arts, not merely in 
the same degree that the intellectual world 
excels the corporeal: the power of a poet 
over his materials is nothing less than en- 
chantment; he can as easily transfer the pro- 
perty of one object to another, as substitute 
one object for another; he can animate 



3 

matter into mind, and invest mind with the 
form and properties of matter. 

On carrying up our inquiries into the 
nature of so extraordinary and considerable 
a portion of the materials of a poet to the 
source, and investigating the sentiments of 
the ancients on the subject before us, their 
opinions are found deserving of notice, more 
from the partiality which they have mani- 
fested towards this licentiousness in compo- 
sition, than from the success which they have 
evinced in justifying or explaining it. In 
undertaking to account for those bolder effu- 
sions of the art, which they regarded as soar- 
ing too high for the controul of reason, or 
trammels of precept, they pronounced them 
to be the effects of a divine phrensy. Under 
this idea, which was no small favourite with 
antiquity, the votarist of the muse was 
feigned to receive by inspiration those sub- 
lime conceptions, which he imbibed with so 
much warmth, and delivered with so much 
enthusiasm. In vain did he, who was not thus 
favoured by heaven, endeavour to regulate 
his essays by art, or by labour; all his at- 
tempts must prove cold and lifeless, until 
animated with that effluence which could 
descend from the muse alone. While he 



who received the divinity in tne moments 
when she was propitious, and wrote under 
her immediate inspiration, possessed the right 
of giving utterance to her dictates, how 
little conformable soever they might be 
found to the more rigid principles of criti- 
cism. 

From the force of these descriptions of 
poetical enthusiasm, much it is to be remarked 
should be subducted, and attributed to the 
extravagance of declamatory exaggeration. 
There is evidently displayed under the tissue 
of figurative language, an ambitious attempt 
at raising the description to the height of the 
subject described, and at accommodating it 
to the elevation of poetical expression. To 
a certain degree however they may be ad- 
mitted; for they do not appear so difficult to 
be reconciled, as may be at first imagined, 
with notions which are at present very gene- 
rally allowed. Few persons, it is presumed, 
will be found to deny the existence of that 
talent or aptitude for excelling in any of the 
arts of design, which we term genius; which, 
though capable of improvement or deteriora- 
tion, is a natural endowment dispensed by 
the same Power which has bestowed on us 
our grosser organs. As few, it is presumed. 



will be found to deny that it is to those per- 
sons alone, on whom this faculty is bestowed, 
that those happy irregularities of conception 
or execution, which we tolerate as licences, 
will be likely to occur. While they who are 
accustomed to attend to the motions of their 
minds, must have observed that there are 
propitious moments, when, from the acci- 
dental presentation of external objects to the 
senses, or the fortuitous recurrence of ideas 
previously acquired by sensation, those happy 
combinations of imagery arise, which cannot 
be created at pleasure. 

But of these opinions of the ancients, 
even with the aid of this explanation, little 
use can be made in elucidating the nature of 
those licences of poetry which it is the pur- 
pose of these inquiries to investigate. They 
give the matter under discussion a depen- 
dance upon a mental faculty which is pro-- 
bably as inscrutable in its nature and move- 
ments, and as difficult to be brought within 
ascertainable limits, as these licences them- 
selves. And surely if poetical genius or en- 
thusiasm is of a nature which is difficult to 
be determined, much more difficult must it 
be to ascertain those effusions to which it 
gives birth, which are of themselves capable 
of an endless modification. 



Neither does modern criticism afford us 
much greater assistance in entering on these 
inquiries. Though various writers have 
touched on the subject, and have sheltered 
many seeming anomalies in poetry, under 
the general term licence, yet they have no 
where denned with accuracy what the term 
signifies. Man}' expressions occur in the 
works both of poets and cri ticks, which infer 
the existence of such a principle in poetry 
as certain and acknowledged: some few 
passages might be pointed out, where a de- 
scription of its nature is cursorily attempted, 
and others where bounds are partially pre- 
scribed to its power. But in the only attempts 
wherein they have undertaken to define its 
nature, they are found either to give too 
great a latitude to its meaning, or to circum- 
scribe it within too narrow limits. The 
former seems to be the case, where poetick 
licence is described as being that particular 
character which distinguishes and sets bounds 
between poetry and mere prose : a for to 



* Mr. Dryden thusdefines this term, " Poetical licence I take to 
be the liberty which poets have assumed to themselves, in all ages, 
of speaking things in verse, which are beyond the severity of prose. 
It is that particular character which distinguishes and sets the 
bounds betwixt oratio soluta and poetry." 

Pref. to State of Innoc. 



select a single instance, verse, which consti- 
tutes an essential difference between both 
kinds of composition, is not in any respect of 
a licentious character, however included in 
this description. And on the other hand, 
those attempts at illustrating its nature, must 
be at once pronounced too confined in their 
application, which would straighten it (as 
is the case in some few tracts' 5 written ex- 
pressly on the subject,) to the immunities of 
mere poetical diction. 

From the insufficiency of these attempts, 
it is of course still necessar}* that some effort 
should be made to complete the definition 
of the terms under consideration. And in 
order to arrive at one more just and compre- 
hensive, it is expedient to make a few preli- 
minary observations ; which, if they do not 
appear wholly adequate to the end of their 
application, will at least afford some assist- 
ance in arranging the scattered members of 
poetry, and thus bringing within the bounds 
of comprehension an art so apparently un- 
limited in its nature and varied in its ap- 
pearance. 

b See particularly Christ. Ware, Senar. sine de Leg. etLicent. 
Vet. Poetar. 



8 

The study of human nature, in which 
every poet should be read, is merely a con- 
texture of different sciences. Every thing 
which regards man's state and situation, 
either has been made, or is capable of be- 
coming the subject of such learned or phi- 
losophical investigation. To History is com*- 
mitted the perpetuation of his achievements 
in the more active and splendid scenes of 
life. The circumstances not only of his 
nature and existence, but of those inferiour 
beings, and of that inanimate world, which 
becomes considerable from being connected 
with him, supply Natural History with its 
various speculations. From the varieties in 
his manners, his conduct, and his opinions, 
Ethicks derive their matter of discussion. 
The peculiarities of his language give to 
Grammar, and Rhetorick their scope and 
origin. And to Criticism is consigned the 
regulation of those finer productions of the 
art, which furnish his taste with the means 
of elegant gratification. 

That each of these sciences enter the 
composition of poetry, is a truth so evident, 
as to need no proof in order to be admitted. 
And he who would succeed in this art, must 
not only have his observation considerably 



exercised in the different subjects of their 
investigation, but must have reduced his 
speculations in them under such general 
heads, as will give his thoughts the consist- 
ence and utility, which arise from system. 
He cannot hope, without being somewhat of 
a good historian, to succeed in those higher 
walks of his art, which take their subject 
from the oral or written annals of a nation. 
Without much of the skill and observation of 
a naturalist, his descriptions of rural scenery, 
and his delineation of life and manners, must 
be cold and uninteresting. That knowledge 
of the human heart and character, of the 
calm tenour of sentiment, and the warm 
ebullition of passion, which he is so frequently 
called upon to display, he must derive from 
the same study whence the moral philosopher 
constructs his system of ethicks. Over lan- 
guage in all the varieties of sense, structure, 
embellishment, and harmony, he must exer- 
cise the skill of a grammarian and a rhetori- 
cian. And he must complete his education 
in this circle of sciences, by acquiring a per- 
fect insight into those critical rules by which 
his art is to be tried on the touchstone of 
excellence. 



10 

But though the poet is thus brought 
within the fence of science, he is not confined 
to the narrow limits of its circumference. 
By a certain felicity of boldness, which has 
ever been the undisputed right of his art, he 
may break down that pale which would set 
bounds to his prerogative. To the language 
of history he is not always obliged to pay a 
rigid attention; he may often give to past 
events, a turn which is more suitable to the 
elevation of his ideas; and may represent 
things, not as they happened, but as he con- 
ceives they might have happened. In his 
delineation of natural scenery, and pictures of 
human life and action, descriptions and cha- 
racters may rise from his creation, different 
from what nature any where unfolds to con- 
templation. The language in which he 
speaks, is particularly distinguished from 
that which occurs in reality; but setting aside 
the circumstances of its consisting of verse, 
and figurative expression, those marked pe- 
culiarities which characterize the diction of 
a poet, he may fashion his language with a 
frequent disregard to the minuter rules of 
grammar. Criticism alone assumes the right 
of restraining the licentiousness of poetical 



11 

ardour; but even from its dogmas, he pos- 
sesses a right of appeal to the judgment, and 
the feelings. 

Science, therefore, appears to constitute 
a standard, from which the poet may be ge- 
nerally said to depart, in taking those liber- 
ties which are justified by licence. But that 
science is exclusively the standard from which 
he deviates, will be more admissible, on de- 
monstrating the improbability of there being 
any other. 

On a casual view of the subject under 
consideration, art and nature may be thought 
to possess an equal or paramount claim to 
that of science, in forming the standard from 
which the poet possesses a liberty of deviat- 
ing in his delineations. From the rank 
which his compositions hold, as the principal 
among the arts of taste, the intimacy which 
they possess to the former, may be thought 
even closer than that which they bear to the 
latter. Nay, in regarding poetry as strictly 
imitative, in which is inferred the notion of 
an original and a model, which the artist 
aims at copying or emulating, each may be 
regarded as forming a standard, to which he 
must in some respects conform, and from 
which he may in others occasionally depart. 



12 

With a reference to this distinction, the li- 
cences of poetry may be conceived to be de- 
terminable; either as deviations from that 
state of things, abstractedly considered, which 
obtains in nature, or from that mode of prac- 
tice which is generally observed in art, not 
less by the poet himself, than by such artists 
as imitate the same objects with him. 

A single observation, however, will be 
sufficient to shew, that neither of these prin- 
ciples can be taken as the foundation of a 
theory which will be adequate to define or 
illustrate that subtle quality of composition 
which I have undertaken to investigate. One 
example will, in fact, sufficiently evince that 
some licence may be used where there is no 
deviation from any such standard; beyond 
which circumstance, we need not seek any 
additional proof of the insufficiency of the 
principle under consideration. 

For let us suppose, as a possible case, 
that the poet has occasion to represent some 
fact which history describes as improbably 
atrocious and unnatural, and that suitably to 
what was likely to occur, he describes it as 
merciful or upright; it is evident that in thus 
misrepresenting a known circumstance, he 
takes a liberty with truth, which is only jus- 



13 

tifiable by licence; and yet in this process, 
so far may he be from deserting that stand- 
ard which is assumed in the present hypo- 
thesis, that his conduct may be at once more 
conformable to nature, and more consistent 
with his general practice, as well as with 
that of every artist who may undertake to 
describe the same circumstance. 

In a word, the apparent force of both 
hypotheses may be not merely explained 
away; but both may be reduced under the 
more comprehensive principle which was 
originally laid down, as being exposed to no 
similar objection. The fact is, that both art 
and nature! may form constituent parts of 
science, the true standard by which every 
deviation is to be estimated which is admit- 
ted as a licence: for we have already seen, 
that what is generally prescribed in the for- 
mer, gives rise to that system of rules, which 
constitute the laws of grammar and criticism ; 
and that what generally obtains in the latter, 
furnishes history and physiology with their 
respective subjects. These sciences include 
no small portion of the materials of a poet; 
and it will probably be found, that it is only 
as each assumes a scientifick form, that it con- 
stitutes a' standard, by which the liberties 



14 

taken in poetical delineation may be at all 
determined. Thus, however different the 
present principle may be thought from that 
which was fundamentally laid down as true, 
they are, in fact, identical. And this cir- 
cumstance, by affording a striking evidence 
of the comprehensiveness of the theory which 
I commenced with establishing, since it in- 
cludes one which is itself not narrow or cir- 
cumscribed, appears to offer as decisive a 
proof as may be easily suggested, of the ex- 
clusive truth of the former. 

If this conclusion may be now taken as 
established, we require little more in order 
to perfect the developement of the terms un- 
der consideration, than to point out the ob- 
ject by which a poet is led to deviate from 
what is true in science. And this may be 
done with sufficient precision, from a maxim 
advanced by Aristotle, in the close of his 
" Poeticks," where he undertakes the refu- 
tation of some charges urged against poets; 
and which, though it may not appear to de- 
signate the nature of licence, at least fully 
justifies its adoption, while at the same time 
it specifies the end which ought to be sought 
in every deviation from science. " The prac- 
tice of the poet in feigning any thing," says 



15 

the critick, c " which is impossible according 
to science, is justified when he attains the 
specified end, of making the general effect 
of the composition itself, or any of its parts, 
more striking." 

From these considerations, and from this 
authority, we may venture to define Poetick 
Licence as follows; That liberty whereby 
a poet, in order to render his compositions 
more striking, allowably deviates from what 
is considered true in science. 

Although, for reasons which have been 
already specified, we are sufficiently justified 
in offering this definition as comprehensive 
and clear, it must be allowed, that in order 
to render it logically adequate, it is necessary 
to establish the converse of what is here ad- 
vanced; and to shew, not merely that what- 
ever is a deviation from science will be a li- 
cence, but that whatever is a licence will be 
a deviation from science. Even granting 
this object attained, we must proceed far 
beyond the limits of a definition, in order to 
accomplish all that is proposed in the present 



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To Se rtXos eipyteu' Oioy, si erw; ExffAijxTUair^oy y avro, t] oc\Ko 
tfoiEi i>*Bpos. De Poet. § 46. 



16 

essay. As the standard is various and dif- 
ferent, from which the poet claims a power 
of departing, the nature of those licences by 
which he assumes such a liberty must be very 
indefinitely marked out by a general refer- 
ence to science; and as the quality of being 
striking is relative, and admits of a different 
modification, according to the several species 
of composition in which it is attained, it 
forms but a vague standard for determining 
the extent which may be tolerated in poetick 
licence. 

The readiest expedient which offers for 
supplying these defects, and obviating these 
exceptions to the comprehensiveness of the 
subjoined investigation, seems to lie in a co-» 
pious induction made with the express object 
of proving, that in every licence some scien- 
tifick truth is violated, and some striking 
effect attained. In prosecuting which, it 
will be attended with little comparative dif- 
ficulty to examine how far every deviation 
may be prosecuted, without abusing the 
power by which it is tolerated. 

That no objection may be raised to the 
induction on which I hope to ascertain these 
points, as partial or limited, it seems advis- 
able to consider poetry in every light in 



17 

which it has been regarded by the compre- 
hensive views of Aristotle. With this object, 
it is my intention to prosecute my inquiries 
into its licences through the various parts of 
quantity into which that great critick has 
divided the art; and to examine them with 
respect to the Fable, the Manners, the Senti- 
ments, and the Diction. 

Of these constituent parts of the higher 
poetry, the most considerable is the Fable, as 
Aristotle has justly decided: this part shall 
consequently be made the subject of primary 
discussion. As it has been defined by the 
critick, it is capable of a twofold considera- 
tion; with respect to its incidents, and to 
their structure in composition. The inci- 
dents offer likewise a separate division to our 
notice; being distinguished into those which 
are natural and true, and those which are fic- 
titious and marvellous. On these conside- 
rations, it seems expedient to ground the 
following distribution of these inquiries. 

Sect. I. Of Incidents, real and probable. 

Sect. II. Of Incidents, marvellous and 
fanciful. 

Sect. III. Of Arrangement, or Oeconomy. 

Sect. IV. Of Manners, and Sentiments. 

Sect. V. Of Language, and Versification, 
c 



18 

Besides this general distribution of the 
subject, it is susceptible of a still more mi- 
nute consideration; as each of these general 
heads is referable to the separate divisions 
under which the higher productions of the 
art are arranged. According to the fore- 
mentioned division of the incidents of poetry, 
as real or fictitious, the compositions of the 
Epopee and Drama are distinguished into 
the Historick Epopee, and Historick Drama, 
in the first place; and the Romantick Epos, 
and Romantick Drama, in the second: the 
" Pharsalia" of Lucan, and " Richard III," 
of Shakespeare, forming an example of the 
former; the " Orlando" of Ariosto, and 
" Tempest" of Shakespeare, an example of 
the latter. As occupying a middle rank be- 
tween both, and partaking of their respective 
characteristicks, we may distinguish the poe- 
tical Epos, and the poetical Drama; includ- 
ing under the former, such works as the 
" Iliad" of Homer, and " Paradise Lost" of 
Milton; and under the latter, such works as 
the " CEdipus" of Sophocles, and " Othello" 
of Shakespeare. 

Although poetry is susceptible of a still 
further division, besides that in which it is 
regarded as epick and dramatick, there seems 



19 

to be no necessity for giving it in any other 
form a distinct consideration in the subjoined 
essay. With regard to the Sentiments and 
Diction, as they form equally a part of 
poetry in every shape, compositions of what- 
ever form, as amenable to the same rules, 
require no separate examination. The ten- 
dency of the subject of any work, or the 
greater part of its matter, as it happens to be 
marvellous or true, necessarily determines 
the character of the production as romantick, 
historical, or mixed. In this view, it may be 
considered as forming an episodical part of 
the higher compositions, and consequently, 
as being subject, with little exception, to the 
same rules with respect to its Manners, In- 
cidents, and Arrangement. By this process, 
the necessity of considering Lyrical and Pas- 
toral compositions, which occupy the next 
rank to those now specified, appears at once 
to be precluded. And with regard to the 
Didactick and Descriptive departments of 
poetry, there appears to be no reason for in- 
stituting a separate class for them, as they 
seem to admit but of fe\v f if any, licences, 
independent of those of Sentiment and Lan- 
guage. 



SECTION I. 



OF 



HISTORICAL INCIDENTS, 



23 



OF 



HISTORICAL INCIDENTS. 



The first object of the poet, who has the 
general end of his art in view, is to select a 
subject capable of contributing to the plea- 
sure of his readers, and which it is his design 
to prosecute through the varieties of plain or 
embellished narration. But he cannot con- 
ceive in idea, much less proceed so far as 
to be informed from experiment, that a sub- 
ject deficient in that importance which is 
suited to the length and dignity of the species 
of composition in which he engages, will be 
calculated to excite interest, and uphold at- 
tention, from the commencement to the close 
of his production. Unimportant incidents, 
which are not otherwise recommended to 
particular notice by some engaging quality, 
may, in a production of ordinary length or 
merit, pass without remark; but when they 



24 

are treated with that labour and embellish- 
ment of style, which is generally essential to 
poetry, and particularly to epick composition, 
they must create so disproportionate a dif- 
ference between the subject and its decora- 
tions, as will offer much to excite disgust, but 
little surely to promote our pleasure. 

It is more than probable, that the poet, 
with a view to securing those qualities of in- 
terest and importance, which are essential to 
the higher compositions of his art, applies to 
history for a subject suited to the exercise of 
his powers: or that some train of historical 
occurrence, from possessing those qualities, 
recommends itself to him who feels the in- 
spiration of the art, as being highly adapted 
to his purposes. But however great the 
events, and however exalted the characters 
which history exhibits, it rarely displays a 
continuity of action possessing that uniform 
elevation, and capable of upholding that 
uninterrupted interest, which the poet is 
called upon to maintain through the extent 
of his subject. 

Where history is thus found to deny its 
support, invention offers its ready assistance; 
it opens a store of inexhaustible matter at 



25 

once within the poet's reach, and suited to 
his necessities. Even those persons who lay 
no claim to poetical inspiration, are observed, 
in relating any of the more trivial occur- 
rences of life, to throw more interest into 
their account, by exaggerating what is un- 
important, and supplying what is deficient in 
its matter. How much more then, must the 
artist be impelled to give a loose to his in- 
ventive powers, who may plead the immu- 
nities of poetical enthusiasm; who may re- 
ceive a subject from history little calculated, 
from the blemishes that may deform, and the 
deficiencies that may mutilate it, to answer 
all that expectation may demand in his art? 
To the delicacy of his more refined sense, 
those flaws and imperfections, which escape 
the observation of grosser organs, must be 
particularly manifest: he must observe the 
necessity of polishing them down, or var- 
nishing them over; and he must feel himself 
possessed of talents adequate to secure him 
success in such an undertaking. He must 
perceive himself endowed with the power of 
raising his conceptions beyond what he may 
observe in reality; of improving on what is 
beautiful, of elevating what is sublime, of 



26 

adding further ornament to what is embel- 
lished, and greater harmony to what is ar- 
ranged. 

We may hence look upon the poet as 
divided in his choice between opposing inte- 
rests; as led, on the one hand, to maintain 
the importance of his subject by preserving 
its truth; and as induced, on the other, to 
heighten its beauty by increasing its embel- 
lishment. And whatever be the impulse to 
which he yields, his way lying through his- 
tory, must either fall into the beaten track 
of reality, or deserting it, must pass into the 
confines of fiction. His course being thus 
prescribed, we may proceed to determine 
the nature and extent of those licences, in 
which he may be indulged in taking either 
direction. 

Those places in which the poet does not 
conform to history, are evidently those alone 
in which his conduct in the present section 
demands any consideration. And here, since 
history is a science, there is a deviation from 
that standard, which, as has been observed, 
determines the nature of every licence, in as 
much as there is a deviation from history; 
for whatever fictitious matter is superadded 



27 

to an account generally true, must be a de- 
viation from the authority professedly fol- 
lowed. Thus, in attributing irrascibility to 
Brutus, or valour to Domitius Anobarbus, in 
making Helen contemporary with Paris, or 
Dido with iEneas, the poet deviates from 
history, and is conceived to make use of a 
licence. So far the nature of this quality of 
poetical composition is, in the present in- 
stance, easily determined. But to ascertain 
the object of such deviations from science, 
seems attended with as little difficulty. In 
order that they should be allowable, without 
which they can be evidently no licences, 
they should at least conform more in their 
altered, than original state, to the end of 
poetry, by being more capable of giving 
pleasure, or awakening interest. And this 
end cannot be attained, without rendering 
the production more striking: for every im- 
provement which is added to the original 
matter of the subject, as it increases its effect 
must strengthen its impressiveness. 

So far the Nature of those liberties 
taken with the science of history is explained, 
and shewn to possess every necessary con- 
formity to the general definition formerly 



28 

given of Poetick Licence. But to what Ex- 
tent these liberties may be carried, with- 
out transgressing the due bounds of li- 
cence, demands a more particular conside- 
ration. 



29 



CHAP. I. 

OF THE HISTORICAL EPOS. 

Directing our attention to the historick 
epopee in the first place, every difficulty which 
requires a solution, in reference to its histori- 
cal incidents, appears to be included in the 
following question. 

What may be the liberties which a poet 
is permitted to take with the truth of the in- 
cidents, on which he founds an historick 
poem ; or, to speak with a more immediate 
reference to the subject of the present in- 
vestigation, how far in taking any such liber- 
ties will he be justified by Poetick Licence ? 

And this question may, I believe, receive 
a solution from unfolding and applying those 
principles, which direct the poet in the choice, 
and guide him in the management of his 
subject. 

When we regard the more important in- 
cidents which form the action, or ground- 
work of the composition, they do not appear 
capable of deriving any advantage from the 
poet's pushing the bounds of truth into the 



30 

regions of fiction. In pursuing any track 
which occasionally falls into the direct course 
of history, a poet's way must be influenced 
by one of the before-mentioned principles of 
his art: it may be on the one side directed by 
an attachment to truth, or deflected on the 
other by the love of embellishment. But in 
his attempt to influence the reader's gratifica- 
tion, by means of the first of these qualities 
his powers admit neither of increase or 
diminution. What is already truth, cannot 
be made more so; and of those persons, 
among whom he can expect to find readers, 
all must be supposed acquainted with the real 
statement of the more important facts in his 
subject. Nor does this happen to be the 
case with such readers only as live near the 
period when those occurrences took place, that 
are admitted into his descriptions; as his sub- 
ject must, of necessity, be recommended by 
its dignity, it must rank among those great 
occurrences that exist longest, and most 
forcibly in the memory. The knowledge of 
the poet's subject being thus definite and 
general!! the alteration of any historick inci- 
dent, for the purpose of securing the second 
quality, and conferring some particular beauty 
of embellishment, must be productive of a 



31 

consequence, which, to a certain degree, will 
weaken the effect of the composition, by un- 
fitting the mind for the perception of that 
pleasure, which it is intended to awaken. For 
it can scarcely admit of any doubt, that such 
a play of the imagination will arise from 
hence, as will rather distract our attention, 
than concentrate our interest, in the perusal ; 
as the most striking circumstances in the 
authour's work will force themselves into a 
comparison, what he has altered contrast- 
ing itself with what we remember as true. 
Thus in the particular species of composition 
before us, where a number of recent events 
exist in our recollection, when the truth of 
any is sacrificed to embellishment, we must 
be either immediately shocked at the under- 
taking, or at least too far engrossed by a 
sense of its impropriety to remain in that 
state of freedom from prepossession, which 
will enable us to acknowledge any beauties 
that the poet may have acquired in his search 
after extraneous ornament. 

This is, however, but a negative incon- 
venience, and consequently trivial, when com- 
pared with others which may be apprehended 
to arise, when the poet ventures upon the 
project of blending fiction with truth in a 



32 

composition professedly historical. On car- 
rying such a scheme into execution, circum- 
stances will occur which will not merely 
weaken but counteract the effect of his com- 
position. For, on account of the extended 
knowledge of his subject, every alteration of 
its important incidents must be a violation of 
received truths ; and hence it will unavoidably 
happen, that the expedient by which this al- 
teration is effected will operate in a contrary 
direction, as well to the general end of the 
art, as to the particular means by which this 
species of composition aims at securing this 
general end. It deprives us of that portion 
of pleasure which arises from the considera- 
tion of truth; a quality that in no slight de- 
gree contributes to advance the end of such 
a work as an historical poem, the subject of 
which is chiefly recommended by its dignity 
and importance. We must consider more- 
over every alteration of an historick incident 
as being made suitably to the character of 
the production in which it is attempted: 
when this is not the case, whatever be the 
change effected, it must fail in its end, from 
the sense we retain of its want, not only of 
truth, but of propriety. Such however is 
the serious character of all historical com- 



33 

position, that it will not admit of those means 
of exciting pleasure which are appropriate to 
works of a different description. It will not, 
in fact, permit that continued address to the 
more powerful emotions, which constitute 
our delight in the perusal of such produc- 
tions as the drama or marvellous epos; and 
which, by engrossing the mind, leave it in- 
sensible to the violence which is offered to 
its received notions, when striking facts are 
misrepresented or altered. 

These considerations on the serious cha- 
racter of the historick poem, may be prosecu- 
ted even further in confirmation of the same 
position. From the necessity incumbent on 
the poet of preserving such a character, we 
may fairly deduce, that he is confined to the 
observation, if not of truth, at least of veri- 
similitude; a quality which criticism d has in 
all ages, pronounced requisite to the poet in 
detailing, as well the matter which he finds, 6 

d Qavepov Ss ex. tcuv siprj^svuiv, xa.i on 8 ra fa. yevo^eva. Xsyetv, 
t8fo TtoiTjTB spyov eo-riv, aAA' ofa a.v yevotro, xai rot, Swatcc y.<m& 
to sixo;, ij to avctyxcuov. Axist. De Poet. § 18.' 

' For historical or true events may sometimes be improbable. 
Thus M. Boileau, after Aristotle, observes, 

Jamais au spectateur n'offrez rien d'incroyable ; 
Le vrai peut quelquefois rietre pas vraisemllable. 

L'Art. Poet. III. v. 47. 
P 



34 

as that which he supplies in his subject. 
Now among those subjects which are purely 
fictitious, or are so remote in point of time 
as to be known with little certainty, the mind, 
from having no standard to decide how far 
they may be false or real, may be led to ad- 
mit every thing in them as far as it is probable. 
But this is not the case with our thoughts on 
subjects that have not only a positive, but a 
recent existence. In them the standard of 
truth is fixed and determinable. And so far 
so, that if we depart from their reality we arx- 
nul their verisimilitude: for in altering any 
incident of which we have an accurate know- 
ledge, it is evident we take from it the ap- 
pearance of truth. If, therefore, verisimilitude 
is necessary to poetry, it is a fair inference 
to assert, that in order to preserve it in the 
historick epos, no alteration or embellishment 
can take place which afTects the reality of its 
incidents, as far as they are known and im- 
portant. 

From this view of the subject the authours 
of the " Pharsalia," and the " Campaign," 
who have been so often censured for a rigid 
adherence to reality, appear rather to merit 
applause than to need justification. Nor am 
I of opinion, that their practice in construct- 



35 

ing their works with that historick fidelity 
which we discover in them, is to be attributed 
more to choice than to necessity. As living 
near the period which produced those illus- 
trious actions which their respective poems 
were intended to celebrate, they saw them 
in that strong point of view, in which great 
and recent events take hold of the recollec- 
tion. The splendid objects to which their 
admiration had been turned had indeed gone 
down, but their departed glories still conti- 
nued to illuminate the horizon. The poet 
and his readers must thus have stood in the 
same view with respect to the circumstances 
of his poem: both must equally have seen 
the impropriety of confounding in detail, the 
boundaries of truth and falsehood ; and 
writing under this impression, the artist natu- 
rally drew from his own feelings, a produc- 
tion suited to the feelings of his readers. 

Nor can the imperfections of a less im- 
portant rank, which criticks discover in the 
historick productions just mentioned, be in- 
sisted on as recommending a contrary prac- 
tice to the poet, or be urged as abridging the 
exemplification of the doctrine which has 
been laid down on the present subject. Un- 
der cover of the same principles, the minuter 



36 

charges urged against the poetical merits of 
Lucan find an easy answer. Voltaire objects 
to certain dryness in his style, arising from a 
close adherence to history; and observes, that 
his title to being a poet, is secured only by 
the uniform elevation discoverable in his 
work/ Tasso, going still farther, declares 
that he is no poet, because he adheres so 
closely to particular truths, that he pays no 
attention to universality; and because he 
relates things as they happened, not as they 
ought to have happened. 5 But these cen- 
sures seem to affect the poet only when the 
particular character of his composition is not 
taken into consideration; and amount to no 
more, than his not having embellished his 
subject with ornaments incompatible with its 
nature. 



f Lucain n'ose s'ecarter de l'histoire; par \k il a rendu son 
poeme sec, et aride. — en un mot, il est grand partout, ou il ne 
veut point etre poete. Sur la Poes. Epiq. chap. III. 

k E s'io credo Lucano non esser poeta, non mi muove a cio 
credere quella ragione che induce alcuni altri in si fatta cre- 
denza, cioe che egli non sia poeta perche narra veri avvenimenti. 
Questo solo non basta, ma poeta non e egli, perche talmente 
s'olliga alia verita de particolari, che non ha rispetlo al verisi- 
mile in universale, e pur che narra le cose come sono state fatte, 
non si cura d'imitarle, come dovriano essere state fatte, Dell' Art. 
Poet. Discors. 2. 



37 

If we inquire into the grounds on which 
these censures on the barrenness of invention 
in historick poetry have been rested, the 
search will furnish us with additional reasons 
for considering them invalid. They will, I 
think, be found to be grounded on a maxim, 
which has imposed on us too much, from 
coming recommended by the authority of 
Aristotle, and justified by the practice of 
Homer. The passage to which I allude, 
draws a line of distinction between the sepa- 
rate provinces of the poet and the historian. 11 
And of its influence in producing these cen- 
sures upon Lucan, the last mentioned au- 
thours give a decisive evidence in adopting its 
matter and language; and this censure ap- 
pears to be retailed at second hand, by those 
writers of an inferiour class, in whom also it 
is found. 

But in carrying up our doubt of the au- 
thority of this maxim to its source, however 
imposing the names of Homer and Aristotle 
must ever be, their voices can convey no 
testimony to determine the present question. 

h O yap ^ropr/.o; xai o rtoirfifis, b fait) s^srpx \sysiv ij apslpa 
ha.<pepB5iV £ii) yap ay ra HpoSora sis [xsrpa riSsvat, kcu shy yrrov 
ay sir} ^ropia ri; (/.era perpa, y] ayev pzrpwv aWx rsrai Staipspsi, 
fix> rbv fj.sv ra yzvoy.sya Xtysiv, rov Se ofa ay ysyoirt.Dc Poet. § 18. 



38 

as one proof of which, let it be remembered, 
they both preceded, by a considerable time, 
the existence of such a production as an his- 
torick poem. Aristotle drew his rules, at least 
of epick poetry, from Homer; and Homer 
wrote at a period when all important occur- 
rences were committed to the almost certain 
misrepresentation of tradition; but Lucan, 
when they were fixed by the definite language 
of history. Of course, Homer and Lucan 
wrote under circumstances the most opposite ; 
and to try the one by the practice of the 
other, or by any rule deducible from it, is to 
measure him, not so much by an authority 
which he has no right to acknowledge, as by 
a standard which possesses no scale to ap- 
preciate his merits or defects. Far am I from 
maintaining, that this maxim of Aristotle 
does not contain much general truth: this is 
so much the case, that we may draw from it 
the justification of many particulars in the 
conduct even of Lucan. To omit mention- 
ing the circumstance of figurative and me- 
trical language, in which be introduces his 
heroes speaking; much of the dignity with 
which he has elevated his subject, much of 
the decoration with which he has adorned it, 
may be justified on the licence permitted in 



39 

this maxim to a poet, as opposed to the fide- 
lity exacted from the historian. 

On the whole, I am inclined to imagine, 
that in judging of the poetical description of 
the " Pharsalia," and of other historick epo- 
pees, the charges urged against their authours 
have partly proceeded from our considering 
the facts which enter the details of such poems, 
not as they are placed with respect to the 
poet, but as they are situated with regard to 
ourselves. From the comparative remote- 
ness of the period in which we exist, many 
circumstances of inconsiderable note must 
have disappeared from our observation, 
which were regarded as important by the 
poet. This consideration will at least serve 
to account for that attachment of Lucan to 
particular truths which gave offence to Tasso, 
and for that attention to minuter occur- 
rences, which drew down the censure of 
Voltaire. 

The cause of historick poets which I now 
espouse, is not destitute of support, and of 
support drawn from high authority, and 
founded upon just and pertinent observation. 
The conduct of Addison, in rejecting fiction 
in his " Campaign," has been pronounced 



40 

by a celebrated writer, rational and manly.' 
And it has been well observed by A^oltaire, 
though, it must be confessed, his practice 
possessed little consistency with his prin- 
ciples: " II [Lucain] ne fut pas le premier 
qui choisit une histoire recente pour le sujet 
d'un poeme epique. Varius, cotemporain 
de Virgile, mais dont les ouvrages ont ete 
perdus, avait execute avec succes cette dan- 
gereuse enterprise. La proximite des terns, 
la notoriete publique de la guerre civile, le 
siecle eclaire, politique, et peu superstitieux 
ou vivaient Cesar et Lucain, la solidite de 
son sujet, otoient a son genie tout liberie 
d'invention fabuleuse." k This must be the 
character of every recent subject which is 
chosen for an historical epos ; and this obser- 
vation, if admitted to be just, must as well 
determine the practice of the modern poet, 
as justify the conduct of the ancient. 

Thus it is, that in the manner of narrat- 
ing those principal incidents which form the 
action or groundwork of his subject, the 
poet is limited to historick truth. Let me 



' Johnson's Life of Addison. Works, Vol. X. p. 115. Ed. 
1806. 

k Sur la Pocs, Epique, ub. supr. 



41 

not be conceived, however, to maintain, that 
he should sink his importance in that of 
the mere historian. We come to the pe- 
rusal of the different compositions of poetry 
and history, with very different expectations 
to be gratified. We require in the former, 
as it is written principally to inform, and not 
so much to interest us, that it should speak 
the truth, and speak it without addition or 
concealment. From the rigour of such a 
law, the compositions of the latter kind must 
be fully exempted, as the productions of an 
artist who labours with the opposite end, ra- 
ther to delight than to instruct his readers. 
The poet, in encroaching on the province of 
the historian, condescending as he does, to 
be indebted to him for his subject, must re- 
pay the debt, at least by an acknowledg- 
ment. Hence we require truth also from him 
suitably to his engagements; but we expect 
to contemplate it as through a mist, in par- 
tial amplification and concealment. 

And hence from the reasoning which has 
been employed to establish these assump- 
tions, and the general confirmation which they 
receive from the practice of those writers who 
have carried this species of composition to 
perfection, we may proceed to lay down the 



42 

following rules, as marking out the extent of 
those licences, which may be taken by the 
historical poet in receding from the science 
of history. 

With respect to incidents which are 
striking and well authenticated, if they hap- 
pen not to be suited to the end of his com- 
position, the poet may claim every indul- 
gence in omitting them at pleasure. This is 
a licence which, with due limitations, is per- 
mitted to the historian; for he may select in 
his details, from the mass of occurrences in- 
cident to any people, the particular project 
or expedition happening at some particular 
time; and he is never called upon to deliver 
more upon a subject thus chosen, than is 
necessary lo its individual comprehension. 
But more particularly with respect to those 
facts which retain any marks of being little 
or doubtful, both the poet and historian 
must find it their interest to suppress them 
altogether, as they will equally find it their 
advantage to retain those which bear the 
stamp of being grand and probable. 

But this immunity cannot be claimed 
with respect to introducing incidents which 
are important, either on account of their 
greatness, their duration, or their notoriety ; 



43 

though in admitting such materials in his 
composition, there may seem to be no con- 
tradiction given to any thing which history 
asserts as truth, as they must be evidently 
the product of invention. Any distinction 
which would be made in favour of these in- 
cidents is not real, but imaginary; for the 
introduction of all such facts, must be vir- 
tually an alteration, if not of the particular 
truth of any incident in the work, most cer- 
tainly of that collective truth which makes 
up the body of its subject, and which by its 
general effect affords the most striking interest 
to engage the imagination. 

On the whole, with the important inci- 
dents, no liberty should be taken in altering 
their verity, where they happen to be au- 
thentick. And here we may appeal to Lucan, 
as fully confirming and exemplifying the 
above doctrine; and the more so as his cha- 
racter for historick fidelity is so generally 
admitted, that it may be collectively cited 
without descending to a specifick induction 
of particular passages. Thus far at least his 
testimony receives the sanction of the cri ticks 
as unexceptionable, and definitive; but as a 
suffrage singularly appropriate in favour of 
his fidelity, we may adduce, in Florus, the 



44 

testimony of an historian, who has adopted 
his narrative as affording sufficient grounds 
for his details, and has followed and enlarged 
upon his authority. 1 

These incidents of greater note and im- 
portance, however, may be reducible to the 
rank of unimportant, from being questionable 
as to their truth, or doubtful as to their au- 
thority. In the former case, it is needless to 
remark, that they are only subject to the 
restrictions under which all unimportant in- 
cidents are placed. In the latter case, where 
there is a choice in facts, recommended by 
different authorities, the poet is at liberty to 
adopt even those which are of inferiour cer- 
tainty, provided they have some credit, and 
afford any thing to heighten the beauty, or 
improve the interest of his subject. For the 
importance of such incidents being sunk in 
the circumstance of their truth being ques- 
tionable, and as they possess little to recom- 
mend them in point of verisimilitude, in 
having but doubtful credit, it is by their 
beauty principally that they can impart that 
pleasure, which is the end of his compo- 

1 The commentators on Lucan have occasionally pointed out 
the imitations of this historian from the poetj as an instance in 
point, see their illustrations of lib. iv. v. 402. 



45 

sitions, and which saves their littleness and 
their doubtfulness from observation. 

There are facts besides those which we 
term important, such as are virtually incon- 
siderable in themselves, and hang upon the 
subject by a slight dependance, without con- 
tributing essentially to forward its action. It 
is over such subordinate incidents, that the Poe- 
tick Licence of the historick epopee extends 
with the greatest latitude; and under the 
cover of it the poet may claim the liberty of 
altering, omitting, or introducing them, as 
may be most conducive to the consummation 
of that interest which it is the end of his art 
to awaken. The power he may use over 
incidents of this description, is subject to 
no restriction but that of preserving them 
in their subordinate character: for, as it 
is almost needless to observe, this charac- 
ter being once exceeded, those facts change 
their nature, and became subject to every 
restriction in having become important. 

The confirmation and exemplification of 
these conclusions, may be likewise referred 
to the decision of Lucan; to his work we 
may confidently appeal, as affording some 
justification of the rectitude, and every illus- 
tration of the feasibility of this doctrine. 



46 

The poet, however rigidly attached he may 
appear to historic.k truth, has yet occasionally 
availed himself of those licences in altering 
subordinate incidents, which were calculated 
to heighten the effect of his poem, by ren- 
dering it more striking. Thus we may ob- 
serve, that in order to increase the interest 
of his work by exalting the popular cause, 
it is his general practice to extol the actions 
of those persons who devoted themselves to 
the side of liberty, and to depress the cha- 
racters of those who attached themselves 
to the politicks of Caesar. With this view, 
he has used a considerable licence in mag- 
nifying beyond the truth of history, the 
characters of some of Pompey's adherents. 
Thus Domitius iEnobarbus is uniformly re- 
presented as courageous and warlike, though 
certainly not well entitled to such commen- 
dation. 

m . At te Corfini validis circumdata muris 
Tecta tenent pugnax Dorniti. 

Phars. lib. ii. v. 478. 



m But in Corfinium bold Domitius lies, 

And from its walls the advancing power defies. 

Rowe's Phars. ii. v. 722. 



47 

" tibi numine pugnax 

Adverse*, Domiti, dextri frons tradita Martis. 

lb. lib. vii. v.219. 

His conduct when pardoned by Csesar 
at Corfinium, is made to appear noble and 
exalted. 

premit ille graves interritus iras 

Et secum : ( Romamne petes, pacisque recessus 
' Degener? Tu medios belli non ire furores 
' Jamdudum moriture paras? Rue certus, et omnes 
* Lucis sumpe moras, et Caesaris effuge munus.' 

lb. lib. ii. v. 521. 

And his death at the battle of Pharsalia, 
is distinguished with every mark of honour. 

p Mors tamen eminuit clarorum in strage virorum 
Pvgnacis Domiti, quern clades fata per omnes 

* Luckless Domitius, vainly brave in war, 
Drew forth the right with unauspicious care. 

lb. vii. v. 325. 

Struggling with rage, undaunted he represt 
The swelling passions in his lab'ring breast j 
Thus murm'ring to himself: ' wo't thou to Rome 
Base as thou art, and seek thy lazy home? 
To war, to battle, to destruction fly, 
And haste, as it becomes thee well, to die; 
Provoke the worst effects of deadly strife, 
And rid thee of this Caesar's gift, this life.' 

lb. ii. v. 786". 

? Among huge heaps of the Patrician slain, 
And Latian chiefs, who strew'd that purple plain, 



48 

Ducebant. Nusquam Magni fortuna sine illo 
Succubuit: victus toties a Caesare, salva 
Libertate perit: tunc mille in vuinera laetus 
Labitur, ac venia gaudet caruisse secunda. 

lb. lib. vii. v. 599- 

But this art is more fully displayed by 
the poet, in the portraiture which he gives of 
the character and conduct of Caesar; which 
he represents in a far different light from 
that attested by the general voice of history. 
In an early part of his work he thus speaks 
of him : 

' Csesar in arma furens, nullas nisi sanguine fuso 
Gaudet habere vias, quod non terat hoste vacantes 

Recording story has distinguish'd well, 

How brave, unfortunate Domitius fell. 

In ev'ry loss of Pompey still he shard 

And dy'd in liberty, the best reward} 

Though vanquished oft by Caesar, ne'er enslav'd, 

Ev'n to the last, the tyrant's pow'r hebrav'd: 

Mark'd o'er with many a glorious streaming wound, 

In pleasure sunk the warrior to the ground; 

No longer fore'd on vilest terms to live, 

For chance to doom, and Caesar to forgive. 

lb. vii. v862. 
i. But Cxsar for destruction eager burns, 
Free passages and bloodless ways he scorns j 
In fierce conflicting fields his arms delight, 
He joys to be oppos'd, to prove his might, 
Resistless through the wid'ning breach to go, 
To burst the gates, and lay the bulwark low ; 



49 

Hesperiae fines, vacuosque irrumpat in agi'os 
Atque ipsum non perdat iter, confertaque bellis 
Bella gerat, non tam portas intraie patentes 
Quarn fiegisse juvat: nee tam patiente colono 
Alva premi, quant si ferro populetur, et igni. 
Concessa pudet ire via, civemque videri. 

lb. lib. ii. v. 439- 

Before the battle of Pharsalia he describes 
him as invoking the furies, and the gods 
that presided over crimes, to afford him their 
assistance. 

p At tu quos scelerum superos ? Quas rite vbcasti 
Eumenidas Caesar ? Stygii quae numina regni ? 
Infernumque nefas? Et mersas nocte furores? 
Irnpia tam saevae gesturus bella litasti ? 

lb. lib. vii. v. 168. 



To burn the villages, to waste the plains, 
And massacre the poor laborious swains. 
Abhorring law, he chooses to offend, 
And blushes to be thought his country's friend. 

lb. ii. v. 669. 
* But who, O Caesar! who were then thy Gods? 
Whom didst thou summon from their dark abodes? 
The furies listen'd to thy grateful vows> 
And dreadful to the day the pow'rs of hell arose. 

lb. viii. v.257- 

This licence is peculiarity striking, as historians have particu- 
larized the sacrifices Caesar offered to Mars and his tutelary 
goddess, Venus, the night before the battle, and have mentioned 
his vows to raise a temple to the goddess Victory if she favoured 
him in the contest. 



50 

But the most striking example of this licence 
may be drawn from the representation of his 
conduct after the fatal battle. He is first de- 
scribed as exciting his victorious army to 
plunder and rapine : 



s ' Victoria nobis 

1 Plena, viri,' dixit, ' superest pro sanguine merces 

' Quam monstrare meum est: nee enim donare vocabo 

' Quod sibi quisque dabit.— ■ — 

' Tot regum fortuna simul, Magnique coacta 

' Expectat dominos: propera prescedere miles 

' Quos sequeris: quascunque tuas Pharsalia fecit, 

' A victis rapiantur opes.' lb. lib. vii. v. 737. 



As rejoicing in the slaughter, and satiating 
his rage in viewing the destruction of his 
countrymen. 



s Behold, he cries, our victory complete, 
The glorious recompence attends ye yet : 
Much have you done to day, for Caesar's sake ; 
'Tis mine to shew the prey, 'tis yours to take. 
Tis yours whate'er the vanquish'd foe has left; 
'Tis what your valour gain'd, and not my gift. 
For you the once great Pompey's store attends, 
With regal spoils of his barbarian friends; 
Haste then, prevent the foe, and seize that good 
For which you paid so well with Roman blood. 

lb. vii. v. 1052. 



51 

* Postquam clara dies Pharsalica darana retexit, 
Nulla loci facies revocat feralibus arvis 
Hasrentes oculos. Cernit propulsa cruore 
Flumina, et excelsos cumulis aequantia colles 
Corpora, sidentes in tabem spectat acervos, 
Et Magni numerat populos : epulisque paratur 
Ille locus, vultus ex quo, faciesque jacentum 
.Agnoscat. Juvat Emathiain non cernere terram 
Et lustrare oculis campos sub clade latentes. 

lb. lib. vii. v. 787- 

And even denying the last offices of sepul- 
ture to their remains. 

u Ac ne lseta furens scelerum spectacula perdat, 
Invidet igne rogi ruiseris, cceloque nocenti 

'But soon the visionary horrors pass, 
And his first rage with day resumes its place : 
Again his eyes rejoice to view the slain, 
And run unweary'd o'er the dreadful plain. 
He bids his train prepare his impious board, 
And feasts amidst the heaps of death abhorr'd. 
There each pale face at leisure he may know, 
And still behold the purple current flow. 
He views the woful wide horizon round, 
And joys that earth is no where to be found, 
And owns, those Gods he serves, his utmost wish have 

crown'd. 

lb. vii. v. 1110. 
u Still greedy to possess the curs'd delight, 
To glut his soul, and gratify his sight, 
The last funereal honours he denies, 
And poisons with the stench Emathia's skies. 
Not dius the sworn invet'rate foe of Rome 
Refus'd the vanquish'd consul's bones a tomb ; 



52 

Ingerit Emathiam. Non ilium Paenus humatof 
Consulis, et Libyca succensae lampade Cannae 
Conpellunt, hominuin vitus ut servet in hostes: 
Sed meminit nondum satiata. coedibus ira^ 
Cives esse suos. lb. lib. vii. v* 797. 

How such liberties may be allowed, and 
jet be reconcileable with verisimilitude, a 
principle which was laid down as essential 
to compositions of the historical kind, and 
which was taken as affording one of the 
strongest arguments in favour of adhering to 
historical truth, may be thus briefly esta- 
blished. 

With respect to those incidents which are 
drawn from history, as they are not consi- 
derable, the historian's authority becomes no 
ultimate test of their truth. Events of lesser 
importance admit of a different statement 
according to the different opinions by which 
they are imbibed or transmitted: and under 
the supposition of the historian's being mis- 
taken, which daily experience informs not to 
be improbable, the poet is at liberty to adopt 

His piety the country round beheld, 
And bright with fires shone Cannae's fatal field. 
But Caesar's rage from fiercer motives rose; 
These were his countrymen,, his worst of foes. 

lb. vii. V. 1121. 



53 

a different mode of detailing them in descrip- 
tion, particularly if, when thus altered, they 
will be more suited to the purposes of his 
composition. 

With respect to matters of lesser impor- 
tance, which are left undecided by history, 
the poet's practice, as it cannot be determined 
by reality, is to be estimated by probability. 
But many circumstances of inconsiderable 
note, which give poetry its most engaging 
touches, if recorded in history, would be in- 
consistent with that utility which is the end 
of historick narration: others there are, 
which being indispensable to the closeness 
and fidelity of historick detail, would offend 
against that general delight which is the end 
of poetical composition. Many of the inci- 
dents consequently, which find a place in 
poetry, may be considered true, although des- 
titute of historical authority: nor can the 
evidence of the historian be adduced as nega- 
tiving their reality, although he does not 
afford them his support or countenance. 
Being devoid of this testimony, their truth 
seems capable of being determined only by 
their probability, which it is always in the 
poet's power to create, according as the cir- 



54 

cumstances of his composition render it ex- 
pedient. 

But in this estimate historick fidelity is 
conceived to be invariable, whereas the con- 
duct even of historians, more particularly in 
detailing the characters of their work, admits 
of considerable latitude. It is sufficient to 
observe that it is the general practice among 
the most celebrated proficients in this science, 
to add more interest to their favourite cha- 
racters, by heightening and embellishing their 
actions. This must be evident to any person 
who examines the different representations 
given by different historians of the same 
eminent characters: and not merely of those 
personages who lived before or near their 
own times, but of their very cotemporaries. 
When we see those biassed representations 
among the most accurate detailers of facts, 
the foundation of whose works is exactness 
and fidelity, how much more should we 
admit them into the composition of a poet, 
the very essence of whose art is interest and 
pleasure? 

But we may extend this principle further, 
so as to embrace another circumstance, in 
which the conduct of Lucan may be men- 



55 

tioned with almost exclusive approbation: 
namely the additional embellishment which 
he has given his poem in the several speeches 
ascribed by him to his different characters : 
a portion of his work which may be distin- 
guished among the adscititious parts which 
the poet is licenced to incorporate on his 
subject. It must be here also observed that 
historians, however bound to follow the plain 
track of reality, are yet accustomed to 
heighten the dramatick parts of their works: 
and this licence is most justly extended to 
them. For, words are of so fleeting a nature, 
that unless they are marked by some pecu- 
liarity in the thought, or turn in the expres- 
sion, they can seldom be relied on as accu- 
rately reported, or well authenticated. Of 
course the poet who undertakes to narrate 
them possesses a privilege of deviating again 
from the historian: when the authority from 
whence he derives his materials is doubtful, 
he has every liberty of turning its uncertainty 
to his advantage. 

In this respect Lucan is particularly 
happy: the merit of his several orations is 
so conspicuous, and they have conferred so 
much additional splendour on his poem, that 
even those criticks, who carry the severity of 



56 

their strictures so far as to deny him a place 
among poets, allow him to rank high among 
orators. These ornaments are in fact most 
admirably suited to the serious and dignified 
nature of the historick poem; and as such he 
has devoted to them his most particular at- 
tention. So far so indeed, that, (if we except 
Achilles' answer to Ulysses in the "Iliad") his 
orations must be confessed to have excelled 
those of all other epick poets, whether 
ancient or modern, in the copiousness and 
energy of their style, and in the vividness and 
animation of their diction. 



57 



CHAP. II. 

OF THE ROMANTICS EPOS. 

At the very opposite extreme of the historick 
epopee, is placed, as I have already observed, 
the epick romance ; and this is so far the case, 
that the former appears the converse of the 
latter; what is incompatible in the one, is 
indispensable in the other. The historick epos, 
as its title imports, requires a foundation in 
historick facts; but the epick romance finds 
a sufficient support in legendary story. 

The mode of inquiry with respect to the 
licences allowable in the incidents of this 
division of poetry, becomes of course the 
converse of that employed with respect to 
the historick poem; as in the latter case, it 
was our object to discover how far fiction is 
compatible with what is true, in the present 
instance we have to inquire how far history 
is consistent with what is fictitious in compo- 
sition. And of the same nature is the con- 
clusion which these inquiries will be found 
to establish: as fiction was shewn to be ge-» 
neraily excluded from the composition of the 



58 

former, history will be found to be equally 
inadmissible in the constitution of the 
latter. 

The assertion now hazarded, on the in- 
compatibility of a purely historical subject 
with a poetical romance, will not require to 
be discussed with much intricacy of argu- 
ment before it is established. And though 
the assertion may appear at first rather pa- 
radoxical, it is, however, a fact, that to em- 
body productions of this kind with history, 
and thus to give them an absolute founda- 
tion in reality, would tend only to diminish 
those qualities of truth, probability, indivi- 
duality, and embellishment, which make up 
the notion of that ideal beauty, by which the 
poet may be supposed bound to regulate his 
fictions. 

The essence of the poetical romance con- 
sists in a wildness of fiction, which derives its 
appearance of truth, not from our knowledge, 
but credulity: the fictitious parts of such com- 
positions can of course derive little improve- 
ment from a forced alliance with that science 
which possessing no varieties of change, 
is confined to the straight line of real occur- 
rence. Over facts which have once occurred 
we have no power of alteration; we may 



59 

misrepresent, but we cannot virtually change 
them : it must of course pervert and destroy 
the nature of such materials, in any produc- 
tion whatever, to blend them with fictitious 
circumstances. When we join those discor- 
dant ingredients, not by incorporation, but 
in succession, such an union must be equally 
unpromising of a successful issue; as it must 
tend rather to bring discredit on that part of 
the composition which we must believe as 
being true, than give probability to that part 
which we must doubt as being preternatural. 
In this mixture, we can be as little said to 
improve the general effect which arises from 
the verisimilitude of the entire subject, as the 
verisimilitude produced in any of its parts; 
for what is partially fictitious, cannot be col- 
lectively true. 

This reasoning is equally conclusive when, 
in point of extent and magnitude, the historick 
part of the subject bears no proportion to the 
fictitious. Of a very different nature is the 
power which the mind possesses over real and 
over imaginary occurrences: those, we have 
observed, it cannot alter; over these it exer- 
cises a power of varying them even to an un- 
limited degree. By whatever modes of com- 
bination these heterogeneous materials may 



60 

be connected, it must be therefore pretty 
evident, that the part which is fictitious must 
bend and accommodate itself, as being more 
ductile, to that which is real and unalterable; 
and that this circumstance will give the work 
that marked turn of feature, which is to deter- 
mine its character as historick or marvellous. 
Fiction is, under its most fascinating appear- 
ance, of a rare and subtle nature; it may be 
rendered at once beautiful and considerable, 
from the extent to which it may be drawn out, 
and the exility with which it may be super- 
induced on the exteriour of any subject; but 
reality takes a more forcible hold of the ob- 
servation, from the prominence and solidity 
with which it stands above the level of the 
surface. A romance, therefore, constructed 
on a historick subject, becomes a regular 
claimant, from its nature, to the title of a 
production founded on fact; and regarded in 
this light, what is historical in its composition 
must at least fix the aera, and determine the 
bounds of its subject. The case of the poetical 
romance becomes, in this view, analogous to 
that of the historick poem ; both must be con- 
sidered the expansion, in poetical language, of 
a certain number of facts, and of facts whereof 
the reader is supposed to possess a steady 



61 

view, and a perfect knowledge. If, there- 
fore, the mind rejects, as an imperfection, the 
licence of alteration in the one species of 
production, how much more will it revolt 
against that unbounded fiction, which the 
other does not take as an appendage, but 
claims as a principal component in its pro- 
ductions? 

It is almost superfluous to remark, that 
from the present consideration of the poetical 
romance, that case is excluded where the real 
occurrences, on which the work is founded, 
have undergone such alterations as prevents 
them from being known: for such a plan, 
though said, and with much propriety, to be 
founded on fact, must be considered purely 
fictitious, as facts appear no longer in its 
composition. 

But in assuming the case of a romance 
being founded on history, if the subject of 
the poem appears to receive no improvement 
in its truth or probability, it is impossible it 
can be benefited by the alliance in any other 
particular. To give it a dash of individual 
nature," which gives a strength of colouring 

w See Sir J. Reynolds' Notes on Do. Fresnoy's Art of Painting 
as quoted by Mr. Twining, in his Notes to Aristotle's Poetieks, 
P- *Op. 



62 

to all the compositions of art, may be con- 
ceived within the power of history, which is 
occasionally dedicated to the particular oc- 
currences incident to extraordinary persons. 
But any accessions which it could derive in 
this respect, it may acquire from other sources, 
or may appropriate from the science in con- 
sideration, without being bound to adopt 
such attendant circumstances, as will make 
facts the basis of its subject, or give the pro- 
duction the title of being historical. Nor 
can the romantick poem derive any improve- 
ment from history in point of embellishment. 
For a liberty of giving such a direction to the 
facts and circumstances of the work as may 
suit the poet's caprice, being implied in the 
very nature of this species of composition as 
being fictitious, it follows, from the power 
which the mind possesses of improving in 
conception on almost every object submitted 
to the imagination, that the romantick poet 
inherits a greater power of contributing to 
our delight by realizing an imaginary crea- 
tion, than he could possibly attain by follow- 
ing the direct track of real events, however 
splendid and dignified. 

But though ihe poet is thus debarred from 
giving his composition a general alliance with 



63 

history, he is not excluded from affording it 
some bearing upon truth. In fact, the magni- 
tude of his compositions, and the commanding 
authority of those great persons Avho have pre- 
ceded him in such an undertaking, seem to* 
exact that his subject should be founded on 
facts: while the nature of his poem, equally 
strengthened by the same precedents,* im- 
poses a law no less binding, that these facts 
should never have been committed to au- 
thentick record. From the first of these prin- 



* Such fabulous histories as those of Turpin and Geoffrey of 
Monmouth, are the authorities on which those compositions are 
principally founded. The former is frequently referred to by. 
Ariosto. 

£ Turpin scrive a punto, che fur, &c. 

Cant. xiii. Ott. 40. 

Non si legge in Turpin, che n'avvenissej 

Ma vidi gia un Autor, che piil ne scrisse. 

Scrive l'autore, il cui nome mi taccio : 

Che non fuor, &c. Cant. xxiv. Ott. 44, 

Mettendolo Turpina, anch'io l'ho messo, &c. 

Cant. xxviii. Ott. 2. 

Scrive Turpin, verace in questo loco, 

Che due, o tre giu, &c. Cant. xxx. Ott. 4g. 

Non ho veduto mai, ne letto al trove 

Fuor ch' in Turpin, d'un si fatto animale. 

Cant, xxxiii. Ott. 85. 

Many of the chief incidents in the " Fairy Queen," have been 
traced by Mr. Warton to still less authentick sources. See his 
Observations on Spenser. Vol. I, sect. ii. 



6'4 

ciples he transfers to his work the natrie of 
its hero, and some of the leading circum- 
stances of his achievements; from the latter, 
he derives the power of forming his plot, of in- 
terweaving with it such wild incidents as con^ 
tribute to its advancement, and of adapting 
to it such grotesque particulars as this extra- 
vagant species of composition delights in. 

And this reasoning is as generally exem- 
plified, as that on the historick epopee, in the 
productions of every writer who has excelled 
in the romantick department of poetry. We 
find no instance of a poet applying for the 
subject of such a work to any source, but 
that in which even apparent truth became 
suspicious from being forced into an alliance 
with some contiguous improbability. Thus 
the period of the European annals, from 
which Pulci, Boyardo, and Ariosto, took the 
subject of their romances, was one which re- 
ceived no steady illumination. from the clear 
lights of history; and Spenser, writing with 
similar views, was led in search of his subject 
into an aera which was involved in all the 
remoteness and obscurity of the darker 
a^es. 

The poetical romance, being thus ex- 
cluded from authentick history, must rely on 



65 

fiction to supply those principal incidents 
which constitute the groundwork of its fable. 
And this being the case, it regularly arranges 
itself under that part of my inquiry which is 
professedly devoted to what is marvellous in 
the composition of poetry. I shall thereto- e 
dismiss it for the present with a single re- 
mark. The more important incidents being 
thus derived from fiction, they afford the 
poet an opportunity of varying them by 
every species of licence; by which means the 
striking contrast that exists between roman- 
tick and historick productions, is preserved 
to a remarkable degree. For this liberty is 
permitted to the historick poet over those in- 
cidents only, which are the reverse of im- 
portant; while it extends to the romantick 
poet over its principal events, and over the 
body of those descriptions which hold the 
most considerable share in the constitution 
of its subject. 



66 



CHAP. III. 

OF THE POETICAL EPOS. 

We have already seen that the historick 
poem nearly excludes the intermixture of fic- 
tion with its realities, and that the poetical 
romance is equally averse from constructing 
its details upon history. One of the chief 
circumstances which mark the superiority of 
the poetical epos over both these kinds of 
composition, is that of giving to its subject 
an equal alliance with facts and fiction, and 
securing to it the contrary qualities of being 
marvellous and true. 

From this consideration on the nature of 
the poetical epopee, our mode of inquiry into 
the licences admissible in the art again shifts 
its position. For on balancing between what 
is fictitious, and what is historical in this de- 
partment of the art, and inclining successively 
to either extreme, the object of research ap- 
pears to branch out into the following diver- 
sities. 

I. May the poet take his subject wholly 
from invention ? 



67 

II. Or, may he be indulged in deriving it 
wholly from history ? 

III. On taking a middle course between 
truth and fiction, what proportion of each will 
he be constrained to preserve : what licences 
in fact may he take in what is historical, and 
what is fictitious in his subject ? 

I. The project of founding an epick poem 
upon a fictitious subject has been opposed 
by Tasso. He combats such an undertaking 
on the principle of its weakening the interest 
by destroying the verisimilitude of the com- 
position. ic Molto meglio e a mio giudicio, 
che d'all'istoria si prenda; perche dovendo 
1'Epico circare in ogni parte il verisimile, 
(presuppongo questo come principio notissi- 
mo,) non e verisimile che una azione illustre, 
quale sono quelle del poema Eroico, non 
sia stata scritta, e passata alia memoria de' 
posteri coll' ajuto d'alcuna istoria. I successi 
grandi non possono essere incogniti, e ove non 
siano ricevuti in iscrittura, da questo solo 
argomentano gli uomini la loro falsita, e 
falsi stimandogli, non consentono cosi facil- 
mente d'essere or mossi ad ira, or a terrore, 
or a piet& : d'essere or allegrati, or contris. 
tati, or sospesi, or rapiti, ed insomma nou 
attendono con quella aspettazione, e con 



68 

quel diletto i successi delle cose, come fareb- 
bono, si que' medessimi successi, o in tutto, 
o in parte veri stimassero/' y 

The conclusion contained in these ob- 
servations is incontestibly just : but as the 
reasons on which it is founded very mate- 
rially affect the force of those arguments em- 
ployed in illustrating the principles of ficti- 
tious poetry, they require some consideration 
before they are unconditionally admitted. 
That we are not so easily moved by what is 
fictitious as by what is true, if assumed by 
the authour, or supposed to follow from his 
reasoning, is an assumption which does not 
appear to be borne out by general expe- 
rience. The interest Ave take in the perusal of 
our popular novels, whose subjects are in 
general fictitious, will at once prove it 
unfounded. But even if the appeal to this 
species of composition were not found to 
leave this assertion at least problematical, 
the argument might be shewn to establish a 
conclusion very irrelative to the present occa- 
sion. For admitting that a fictitious tale has 
not the same sway over the passions as one 



y Tasso " Dell* Art. Poet." Dis. I. 



69 

that is true, it may surely possess all the 
influence which is requisite in the species of 
composition which confines our present con- 
sideration. And that it does possess such 
requisite influence is the more admissible, as 
the tales of fictitious history move us to a 
most powerful degree; and as the produc- 
tions of epick poetry can never appropriate 
such a share of emotion, as is attainable in 
fiction, nor lay claim to such a portion of 
truth as will make much difference in the 
concern we feel for the interests and dis- 
tresses of the characters in its subject. 

But another circumstance seems adequate 
to justify a little caution on our part in de- 
clining to assent to the authours arguments, 
while we subscribe to his conclusion : as he 
appears to fix upon qualities in the compo- 
sition of epick poetry very different from 
those which impart to it its real character. To 
this observation I am led only from a con- 
viction that such a mistaken idea of the cha- 
racter of the epick muse, if supposed to 
proceed from such an authority, may be 
urged against the line of proof which I am 
necessitated to take in strengthening the 
same conclusion, although reasoning on dif- 
ferent principles. Had not the inimitable 



70 

authour stooped too low in considering so 
narrow an object as that before us, and thus 
turned from the general view of that art 
which he could not have misconceived, or 
would not have misrepresented, it is evident 
he would not have overlooked the objections 
to his reasonings which suggest themselves to 
a more confined, but a more cautious obser- 
vation. For the circumstance of his having 
reasoned from principles so exceptionable 
we may assign the true cause ; it afforded 
the most ready solution of the difficulty that 
absorbed his attention. But that such is not 
the real character of the art ; that it does 
not principally address itself to the more per- 
turbed emotions of the breast, nay that such 
a project, if realized by any poet, would be 
unsuitable to that calm and subdued dignity 
which is indispensable in the pure epical 
character, is an assumption which might be 
confirmed, and exemplified, by an appeal to 
that exquisite specimen, which the authour 
in question has given of his powers in ge- 
nuine epical poetry. 

On reducing the question to its proper 
level, and taking a true notion of the epical 
character, the same conclusion will be placed 
above being affected by any of those excep- 



71 

tions drawn from fictitious history, to which 
it is seemingly exposed under the present 
misrepresented appearance. To set the point 
in question in a more clear and apposite 
light, it will be necessary to open our view 
a little more into the nature of both these 
species of composition, and to regard them 
with a particular reference to each other. 
And here let the reader whose fastidiousness 
may turn from the degrading comparison 
into which the works of the epick poet are 
made to descend, in being brought into a 
competition with those of the novelist, re- 
member the object with which our under- 
taking is bounded. Let him remember like- 
wise that, by however great a distance these 
different kinds of composition are kept apart, 
they agree in one capital circumstance ; the 
works of the novelist not being inferiour 
even to those of the epick poet in respect of 
uniting those qualities of pleasure and in- 
struction which constitute the principal and 
indeed only end of poetical composition. 

That scope and object, which he who un- 
dertakes to write a novel prescribes to him- 
self, admits of little variety. The interest of 
his subject turns on the fate of two persons 



72 

of a rank not superiour to that of most of his 
readers. 'J hese he first involves in a hopeless 
attachment ; he afterwards embarrasses them 
in difficulties, and perplexes them in dangers, 
and. finally conducts them to that union in 
•which their wishes end, together with the 
expectation of the reader. Of a suitable 
elevation to the characters thus chosen, are 
the incidents and the end purposed in the 
composition. The occurrences are made to 
surprise merely by being unexpected ; and 
the end is never of greater importance than 
the celebration of a marriage, or the acquire- 
ment of a fortune. It is only by heightening 
the interests of a subject thus entered on 
and conducted, that the authour can supply- 
its want of importance. This he effects by 
moving the heart and stimulating the affec- 
tions to a powerful degree; by hurrying the 
mind in a tide of tumultuous delight which 
leaves it little consideration to look for, or 
to admit other gratification. It is with this 
view that he keeps us continually agitated 
between hope and disappointment, between 
suspense and gratification ; that he embar- 
rasses what would be obvious in his plan, 
conceals his intentions with the view of asto- 



73 

nishing by their unexpected disclosure, and 
thus perplexes his intrigue for the purpose of 
pleasing by its developement. 

That we dispense with the want of truth 
in these compositions seems to be on two 
accounts : that event towards which the sub- 
ject tends, and those incidents on which it is 
constructed, are of that familiar and unim- 
portant kind which, falling within the com- 
pass of common occurrences, are not calcu- 
lated to force a doubt into the mind respect- 
ing their reality. We may also conceive them 
to have really happened, though out of the 
circle of our knowledge ; for occurrences 
equally unimportant frequently take place 
without our privity. It is not my intention, 
however, to maintain that we ever believe the 
production to be true ; but that the interest 
we take in it is never interrupted with the 
notion of its being fictitious. But more than 
this, from the manner in which the subject is 
conducted, our passions are kept in con T 
tinued play, and our mind is so far diverted 
by a powerful interest, that it wrll not turn 
to this or any inferiour consideration. And 
should it even happen that these doubts, re- 
specting the truth of what interests us, should 
arise when we are thus engrossed by our 



74 

feelings, their effects would be little felt 
among those sensations which more power- 
fully agitate the bosom. 

It must be sufficiently apparent that the 
expedients, by which the novelist is thus en- 
abled to support his subject without the 
assistance of truth, are neither resorted to 
by the epick poet, nor expected from his 
compositions ; but it is equally true, not only 
that the epopee rejects the whole of the means 
employed by the novelist in effecting such 
an end, but that we should not tolerate such 
an end if effected. The fundamental cause of 
this circumstance seems to lie in the epopee 
exciting our pleasure by appealing rather to 
the taste, than by addressing the passions. 
And a justification of the preference mani- 
fested by the poet in directing his composi- 
tions to the former is deducible not only from 
the comprehensiveness of taste as a faculty, 
which occasionally embraces what is affect- 
ing and pathetick, as well as what is beau- 
tiful and grand ; it might be drawn from the 
nature of those emotions which it excites, as 
being of a nature more dignified, exalted, and 
intellectual than those which operate on our 
passions. Taking this circumstance along with 
the further consideration, that every poet is 



75 

called upon to aspire at that highest degree, 
and that highest kind of pleasure, which is 
attainable by his art, it will ultimately lead 
us to a notion of the true epical character. 
And this notion properly followed up will 
eventually establish the conclusion of Tasso, 
and annihilate the force of the exception 
brought against it from fictitious history. 

That the want of dignity in the characters 
of a novel, the want of greatness in its inci- 
dents, and of importance in its catastrophe, 
must incapacitate such materials from enter- 
ing into the composition of epick poetry, is 
so self-evident as to appear unworthy of re- 
mark. The general character of that interest 
which fictitious history excites must place it, 
as being perturbed and passionate, under a 
similar interdict from entering into epical 
composition ; as it is forwarded by a suc- 
cession of those unexpected events and af- 
fecting incidents, which, though powerful in 
swaying our passions, contribute little more 
to the gratification of that severer faculty, 
taste, than to procure it a temporary variety 
in that calm and serious delight after Avhich 
it principally seeks. Nor can any suitable 
gratification be promised to this faculty by 



76 

supplying that perplexity of intrigue which 
distinguishes the compositions of fictitious 
history from that simplicity of plan which 
we require in epical compositions; and 
which is a plan of that kind alone that we 
can find time to comprehend, from having 
our attention divided among other and in- 
teresting considerations. 

The poet being thus excluded from sus- 
taining the interest of an epical composition, 
by those means which the novelist employs 
in his fictitious subjects, is left no alternative, 
in affording that pleasure which is the end of 
his art, but what the nature of his composi- 
tion, as being the most dignified as well as 
the most perfect of the works of invention, 
naturally suggests. And suitably to this cha- 
racter, he employs his subject, not in details 
of private interests, and domestick duties, 
but in the description of events of great and 
national concern, and in the display of moral, 
patriotick, and heroical virtues. That uni- 
formity of composition which requires, that 
incidents of this rank should be followed by 
a close of suitable elevation ; that unity of 
plan which demands that every incident 
should hang upon some principal event, in 



77 

order that the mind should not be distracted 
in keeping those parts together which are not 
simultaneous but successive ; and that beauty 
of arrangement which exacts that our inte- 
rest should rise rather than fall with the pro- 
secution of the subject, are qualities which 
are indispensable in the epical plan : and 
they imperatively require, that the subject 
should be constructed on some occurrence 
of more than ordinary importance; in the 
completion of which the production should 
find its termination. In the state of calm 
and collected emotion, with which the mind 
regards those incidents of the work, which 
suitably to the dignity of its composition 
should be thrown into a solemn repose, it 
must sink under the weariness of a prolonged 
narration, unless this expedient is adopted. 
For a production, thus constructed, must be 
for the most part deprived of those little 
interesting tales of domestick happiness or 
distress, which uphold the attention by the 
agitation of the passions ; and the mind must 
consequently feel a lassitude, unless it is kept 
alive by having the observation bounded by 
some great object; such, as the subversion 
of a kingdom, the establishment of an infant 



78 

colony, or the restoration of an exiled prince 
to his people and dominions. 

An event of this magnitude must be re- 
presented as being conducted by some prin- 
cipal personages, and as having happened 
in some place and at some period. And 
these are the particulars which appear to 
exact that this event should be strictly histo- 
rical. It is equally impossible to make all 
these circumstances wholly fictitious ; to con- 
nect them with illustrious characters which 
are remarkable on account of being known, or 
lo assign them the substantial existence of 
time and locality, without having on the 
mind a full impression of the subjects being 
so far contradictory to truth. And this im- 
pression must mix itself with almost every 
sensation produced by the story, and if not 
overpower, at least allay that interest, which 
the composition ought to procure, without 
imperfection or diminution; for the emotions 
which are excited by this species of poetry 
are of a nature too subdued and solemn to 
counteract the dissatisfaction which arises 
from the sense of their being improper and 
unartful. We have not indeed any reason 
to apprehend the influence of this considera- 
tion in those passages of the work which 



79 

are paihetick or terrible ; for these, whether 
they are real or fictitious, are fully adequate 
to support themselves by their own interest. 
But such descriptions, if more than occa- 
sionally introduced, must interrupt that soft 
and equable tenour in which the action of 
the poem is advanced ; from which the poet 
cannot so rise, as to preserve a continued ele- 
vation, and to which he must at times even 
sink, if for no other purpose than to give 
superiour effect, by contrast, to such parts of 
his work as are sublime and impassioned. 

The conclusion which has been just de- 
termined is not only analogous to that esta- 
blished with respect to the historick epopee, 
but has been determined on the same prin- 
ciples. The poet who undertakes either 
kind of composition is constrained to pre- 
serve or to adopt truth in his narration, as in 
departing from the track which it points out, 
the deviation must excite such sensations in 
his readers, as will prevent their interest from 
arising, at least to that degree which poetry 
must aspire after, while there is a possibility 
of its attainment. And this consideration 
of the reciprocity existing between the his- 
torick and poetical epopee, as well as the 
nature of the perfection required in every 



80 

composition of the art, at once leads to the 
decision of the second question respecting 
Poetical Licence which has been proposed 
for examination. 

II. On being excluded from employing 
pure fiction, cannot an epick poem be con- 
structed on authentick history ? 

For what has been already declared on 
the impractibility of departing from authen- 
tick facts in the historical poem, must evince 
that they cannot undergo any alteration, 
much less be falsified to that degree which 
would be necessary for the perfection of 
epical poetry ; and that a subject consisting 
of them must be wholly excluded from its 
composition. 

Nor can it be deemed unnecessary or 
superfluous to have reduced the points under 
discussion to this explicit statement, however 
it may appear to have been anticipated, in 
our inquiries into the licences admissible in 
the historick poem. Since the poetical pro- 
ductions of the French, our rivals, not less 
in literary than in military glory, furnish an 
eminent exception to the conclusion which it 
is intended to establish ; the " Henriacle," 
which is the chief epick poem that this na- 
tion can boast, being founded on a subject 



81 

taken from authentick history. But this 
exception, which derives no small weight 
from the extensive popularity of a writer of 
such general powers as M. de Voltaire, be- 
comes additionally formidable when this very 
peculiarity in its composition is recommended 
as a perfection in the ingenious and sensible 
criticisms of M. Marmontel. 

In the defence which the critick offers for 
liis countryman against that comparison 
which he had been brought into with Lucan, 
(a comparison which is surely as derogatory 
to the Roman, as the apologist would lead us 
to believe it is to the French poet,) this cir- 
cumstance appears prominent among those 
which are adduced to determine the superio- 
rity of the modern over the antient. " Lucain a 
suivi scrupuleusement l'histoire sans melange 
de fiction; au lieu que M. de Voltaire a 
change l'ordredcs tems, transporte les faits, et 
employe le merveilleux." z 

After having determined the reverse of 
this assertion on principles drawn from the 
nature and end of poetry, after seeing these 
principles exemplified in the practice of 
writers of no common note, or inconsiderable 

x Pref. pour la Henriade. 
G 



82 

length of standing, my only appeal from this 
decision lies to the feelings of my reader, who 
in that notice, which he may bestow on 
these speculations, may be disposed to add 
his suffrage to the conclusions which I en- 
deavour to establish. That this conclusion 
does not fail from wanting the support of 
high authority, would be admitted by M. de 
Voltaire himself, since the Abbe Du Bos, 
of whose critical powers he bears ample tes- 
timony, most explicitly declares that a sub- 
ject from recent history is not fit for epick 
poetry. a 

But it is still more worthy of remark, 
that M. de Voltaire himself, bestowing most 
unqualified approbation on Lucan, and 
strengthening his approbation with very con- 
vincing reasons, has not only supported the 
superiour judgment manifested in the " Phar- 
salia, - " but has most incautiously decided 
against that mode of practice which he after- 
wards adopted in the " Henriade." Nor is 
it difficult to account for this inconsistency 
between the authour's practice and his prin- 
ciples : in strict conformity to the latter, the 
poem was originally conceived, and offered 
to the world. It was not until after this period 

» Reflex. Critiq. §. 23. 



83 

that the authour perceived the possibility of 
advancing the credit of his production, by 
giving it more of an epical form. Those 
sentiments, which might have discouraged 
such a project, had been made publick some- 
time before this intention had been formed, 
and if they had been remembered by their 
authour would have had little weight while 
he was occupied with the idea of realizing a 
project which was calculated to become more 
a favourite with any poet. However this 
may be, the writer's own sentiments, standing 
as they do at present, must afford no small 
confirmation to the opinion which is now 
risqued, that the authour of the Henriade, 
so far from demonstrating the feasibility of 
that undertaking which his unprejudiced 
judgment once condemned, has, by his failure 
in it, left a standing proof of the justness of 
those rules to which he is observed to run 
counter. 

The progress of the epick poet, being thus 
restricted from passing into either extreme 
of truth or fiction, is left no alternative but 
that of taking a middle course between both ; 
and this brings our inquiry to that last case 
in an epical subject which has been proposed 
for consideration. 



84 

III. And yet this single case to which 
epick poetry becomes thus limited, does not 
possess the merely negative excellence of 
being good, because there is no better, since 
it is adopted where there is no liberty of 
choice. Lying equally between the extremes 
of reality and invention, it possesses their 
respective perfections, and thus exhibits every 
distinctive mark of intrinsick perfection. 
From the authour of every work we demand 
that he should aim at the greatest degree, 
and highest kind of gratification, in his com- 
positions, which is suitable to productions of 
their kind and nature. But the pleasure 
which historical and romanlick poetry is 
capable of exciting lies under considerable 
restrictions. An historical poem, from the 
circumstance of being confined to the narra- 
tion of recent and authentick facts, seems 
composed with the express object of securing 
the truth and dignity at the expense of the 
interest of the subject. A poetical romance, 
on the other hand, from the circumstance of 
being excluded from adopting an historical 
subject, seems laid under the necessity of 
supplying the want of truth and importance, 
by heightening the interest of its fable. Of 
course, the pleasure which the one species of 



85 

composition affords in the perusal, partially 
excludes that which we feel in reading the 
other ; we have most interest in the one, most 
truth and importance in the other. This 
being the case, either must be deficient in 
that general pleasure which we can conceive 
to arise from their union, and which we ex- 
perience in turning to them in succession. 
It is this mixed sensation of delight which 
arises from a happy union of both, that is to 
be sought in the poetical epopee ; and this 
species of composition, being thus consti- 
tuted of contrary qualities, becomes capable 
of imparting that greatest degree and highest 
kind of gratification of which the art is sus- 
ceptible. And this union of such discordant 
ingredients, the works of some favourate ar- 
tists have not only enabled us to know are 
capable of being realized, but have taught 
us to feel in the most exquisite perfection. 

The epick poet being thus vested with 
powers to enter the different provinces of the 
historical and romantick compositions, be- 
comes in some degree exposed to the diffi- 
culties which they have respectively to en- 
counter. Of such a stubborn nature is the 
historical part of the materials admitted in 
his compositions that it will not yield to alle- 



86 

ration : and yet to the completion of the 
plan of that composition which is professedly 
the most perfect of the works of invention, 
and which ought to be improved until it 
approaches that highest degree of excellence 
which conception can form, no inconsider- 
able alteration of some incidents in the story 
must be necessary. In the difficulty that 
arises hence the poet is left but one expe- 
dient. He must take a subject of a remote 
period. He must, in fact, select it with a 
partiality similar to what the eye feels in 
resting on such objects as from their remote- 
ness excite no doubt with respect to their ex- 
istence ; but of which, while the outline is 
perfectly defined, much of the peculiarities 
of their form, their colour, and their local 
circumstances, are left to employ the imagi- 
nation by exercising it in conjecture. A sub- 
ject chosen under these circumstances, while 
it secures to his composition all that import- 
ance which it can receive from truth, imparts 
to it all that interest which it can derive from 
invention. 

That intervening point in the history of 
any people between the suppression of fabu- 
lous narration, and the establishment of au- 
thentick record, when the mind is suspended 



87 

'tween reason and credulity, seems to be 
the most promising period from which a poet 
is likely to be furnished with such a subject. 
As this is a period which must be necessarily 
semi-barbarous, it is not only freed from the 
restraint of that affectation and refinement in 
manners which are so incompatible with the 
general nature of the higher poetry, but it 
seems most calculated to produce those im- 
portant and daring exploits, which are best 
adapted to a species of composition pro- 
fessedly heroical. And as the character of 
such a period is that of being credulous, it 
must receive from this circumstance such a 
tincture of superstition, as will give it a con- 
nection with those supernatural agents, and 
that marvellous imagery, which add so much 
to our delight, by blending with that emotion 
a mixture of admiration. In the considera- 
tion of the antiquity of such a subject is in- 
cluded all that sacred awe which the mind 
feels in recurring to times that are past, all 
that solemn delight which it experiences in 
contemplating the venerable interest that 
surrounds and rests over human gran ur 
its decline. 

But if the epick poet is laid under certain 
restrictions from which the romantick poet 



88 

is exonerated, he is indulged in licences from 
which the historick poet is debarred. To 
determine the extent of that power with 
which he is thus invested, it is necessary to 
remark in the first place, that he may claim 
the same liberty, which has been extended 
to the historick poet, of altering, omitting, or 
introducing all those incidents which are of 
secondary importance. And the only ex- 
ception which can be taken to this licence 
is, that a want of verisimilitude in the prac- 
tice may interfere with the pleasure which 
his productions are intended to confer. But 
from the circumstance of these incidents be- 
ing unimportant, it is directly a consequence, 
that they are little calculated to strike the 
mind, much less to interfere with that plea- 
sure which engrosses it when its interests are 
upon the stretch. From the same circum- 
stance it equally follows, that we undervalue 
the authority of such incidents as facts, if 
they obtrude themselves under that shape 
upon our observation. 

The same reasoning which has been em- 
ployed to reconcile with verisimilitude, those 
liberties which the historick poet may take 
with the important incidents in his work, 
will, when a little extended in its application, 



89 

apply to the poet who engages in the more 
exalted and difficult task of pure epical 
composition ; and here we may make use of 
the opportunity to observe, that the licences 
of poets of the former description are com- 
paratively trifling when compared with those 
which may be assumed by the latter. In 
estimating the truth of any account, we must 
ever make allowances for the circumstance 
under which the object was beheld, that 
forms the subject of its description, not less 
than for the complexion of the person's mind 
by whom it is related. Striking objects which 
are seen dimly, or at a distance, are generally 
conceived to be enlarged beyond the dimen- 
sions which they appear to possess when 
viewed more closely or distinctly, and in 
proportion to their real magnitude we repre- 
sent them more extended ; for we insensibly 
accommodate our language to the surprise 
they excite, without any intention of falsify- 
ing our declarations. But as the sensations 
excited in beholding such objects must be 
further influenced by the temper of mind 
with which they are regarded, the impres- 
sions that different persons receive from the 
same objects or occurrences may be very dis- 
similar; and to this difference we must ex- 



90 

pect to find their respective narratives "will be 
faithful. A person of a cool and dispas- 
sionate judgment examines an object in many 
lights ; but one of a warm and passionate 
temper will be taken with it in that which is 
most engaging, and luminous. Under all 
these circumstances the truth of the repre- 
sented object is not so much sacrificed as 
we may suppose, nor can we lose much, if 
any, of its true form, when presented to us 
through such a veil : for we readily observe, 
that the envelope forms no part of the body 
which it infolds, and that though it covers it 
does not conceal its proportions and figure. 
We thus judge of it, not by the mere exte- 
riour, but by that form which distends and 
upholds it. With similar restrictions it is 
evident we receive those accounts which are 
conveyed to us in the garb of poetical fancy;- 
expecting to see every object heightened or 
enlarged beyond the nakedness of historical 
truth. The same circumstances which esta- 
blish a difference between the plain narra- 
tor, and the poetical delailer of historical 
incidents, must make that difference still 
greater with respect to the epick poet, who 
has comparatively little concern with real 
occurrences; who docs not receive from his- 



91 

tory, but draws from invention, most of the 
incidents that form his descriptions. We 
expect that the enthusiasm which enrapts 
him, which directs him in choosing a subject, 
and which warms him in prosecuting it, will 
transfer its lights and shades to every inci- 
dent and occurrence which comes within 
the sphere of its influence. 

Nor does the decided superiority, with 
respect to those licences which relate to im- 
portant incidents in poetical composition, 
terminate in favour of the epical poet, merely 
with the advantages, just enumerated ; the 
nature of those authorities on which such 
incidents are recommended to his adoption 
leaves him an almost unlimited licence of 
selection, where there is any room for choice; 
and without any regard to the testimony by 
which they are supported. With respect to 
those which are doubtful in their occurrence, 
or secondary in their importance, he may 
use the discretionary power of representing 
them as is most suitable to his purpose ; and 
in exercising this authority he may regulate 
his mode of representation by documents of 
the most doubtful credit. In estimating the 
force of the different testimonies on which 
facts of an obscure and a remote period 



92 

are attested, traditionary probability stands 
nearly on the same foundation as historical 
representation : in both we are justified in 
supposing there may be some degree of 
errour, so that the authoritj' of no one can be 
set up in opposition to the other, so as to 
invalidate the truth of that statement which 
is adopted by the poet. 

In pursuing the line of conduct prescribed 
above, the poet is not less supported in his 
practice by reason than justified by prece- 
dent. The historick grounds which can be 
found for the main event of the subject of 
the iEneid, the settlement of the Trojans in 
Latium, are now supposed entitled to very 
slight credit. On the question of iEneas's 
having ever been in Italy, from what has 
been agitated, there appears to be most ar- 
guments on the negative side. b The Iliad, 
as being founded on the supposition of a war 
between the Greeks and Trojans, has been 
of late asserted c to rest on no surer basis, with 
respect to the main event of its subject : but 
in this conclusion the publick very justly 
seem disinclined to concur. On the truth 



b See Bochakt. epist. num ./Eneas unquam fuitin Italia. 
Bryant on the Trojan War. 



93 

of one very important fact, however, that 
of Helen's having been at Troy, during the 
time of the siege, considerable doubts have 
been started, and on high historical autho- 
rity : d and this circumstance seems to justify 
a reference to the authority of Homer as a 
precedent in that mode of practice which 
Poetick Licence confers to the artist, and 
from which he derives a power of choosing 
what is most suitable to his purpose in facts 
of a doubtful or contested authority. 

And hence it happens, that among facts 
which are thus imperfectly reported, or ob- 
scurely contemplated, the poet may insert 
many incidents, and even episodes, which are 
important, not less on account of the eleva- 
tion than the extensiveness of their subject. 
For having imagined them with suitable 
attention to verisimilitude, he can have little 
to fear for their sufficiency to convey that 
pleasure which is the sole end of poetical 
composition. It is knowledge alone that can 
interpose her authority to remind us that 
such pleasure has but an imaginary reality : 
but knowledge has now no real objects to 
impress upon our senses, so as to dissipate 

d Herodot. lib. i. p. 8. 



94 

the delusion; her feeble monitions therefore 
escape the attention, which is already en- 
grossed by fascinating, though visionary pro- 
babilities. The licences of this kind, which 
might be exemplified from any epick poem, 
are those which place the most marked dis- 
tinction between the respective provinces of 
epical and historical poetry ; and so exten- 
sive a range do they open to the former, that 
they appear to place it under scarcely any 
historical restriction, but that of deriving 
from fact the main action of the subject, the 
actual scene of its transaction, and the prin- 
cipal characters by whom it is conducted. 



95 



CHAP. IV. 

OF THE DRAMA. 

Although among poetical productions of 
the highest order, the compositions of the 
drama, occupy but a second rank in point of 
execution, they claim decidedly the first place 
in point of effect: the emotions which works 
of this kind produce by means of theatrical 
representation being more powerful than 
those which can be excited by the dead let- 
ter of written composition. On the real 
temporary existence which is conferred on 
the ideal creations of the poet, by em- 
ploying living characters to deliver his sen- 
timents, and a visible scene to sustain his 
action, I wish particularly to fix the at- 
tention of the reader, as one of the chief cir- 
cumstances which characterize the peculiar 
licences of the drama, as opposed to those of 
the epopee. By such powerful auxiliaries 
to narration as dramatick gesture and visible 
representation, more spirit and animation are 
added to the effect of the piece, under cover 
of which the poet is enabled to take many 



96 

liberties with the truth of the incidents on 
which his subject is founded. For though 
it may rather appear that poetry, in descend- 
ing from her ideal state, and submitting her- 
self to the test of the senses, may thus expose 
to observation those deviations from science 
which constitute all licences, yet this is far 
from being the case. On the contrary, with 
respect to those rules which are to regulate 
the dramatick poet in detailing his incidents, 
they may be generally pronounced to stand 
exempt from those limitations which circum- 
scribe his practice who engages in epical 
compositions. 

This will fully appear on prosecuting our 
inquiries into the licences which may be 
taken, in the productions of the theatre, with 
history, the science still under consideration. 
And it will be more conducive to this end, 
to distribute the subject of discussion in the 
same manner as was adopted in considering 
the licences of epick poetry. The following 
are consequently the points which offer them- 
selves for inquiry. 

I. May the poet derive his subject wholly 
from invention ; or should he take it from 
history? 

II. In founding; a drama on historical 



97 
Facts, how far is he licenced in deserting his* 
torical authorit} 7 ; 1. where the facts happen 
to be of remote; and, 2. where they are of 
recent occurrence ? 

These questions appear to comprise every 
difficulty which requires a solution in the 
different modes of composition which have 
been contradistinguished as historical and 
poetical ; all consideration of the romantick 
species of composition in the drama being 
reserved for that particular section of this . 
inquiry, which is appropriated to what is 
marvellous in poetry. 

I. On the first of these questions how far 
the poet is liberated from the necessity of 
taking the subject of his poem from history, 
very different sentiments have been enter- 
tained. P. Brumoy maintains the negative 
of this question, and is opposed by M. de 
Voltaire ; the same point, if I remember 
rightly, has been contested by Dr. Blair and 
Dr. Warton. In this state of a question 
which seems supported by pretty equal au- 
thority, some countenance is not wanting for 
him who places himself on either side. In- 
fluenced, however, by the desire of seeing 
Poetical Licence freed from every possible 
restraint, I feel little hesitation in arranging 

H 



98 

myself on the side of those who maintain the 
affirmative. The reasons which apply to 
laying the epopee under similar restrictions 
have no reference whatever to the drama; 
and if this can be proved to be the case, the 
poet who acts in disregard of all such re- 
straints has not much to fear from the attacks 
of any opponent. 

The arguments which were advanced to 
prove it incumbent on the epick poet, that 
he should construct his poem on an histori- 
cal subject, were fundamentally drawn from 
the particular character of his composition, 
which obliges him to address his work rather 
to the taste than to the passions. Suitably 
to the more serious nature of that faculty, I 
have already shewn that he is obliged to 
maintain an equable dignity in his composi- 
tions, and to preserve the easy tenour of the 
events, undisturbed by the bustle of intrigue 
and the continued agitation of passion. It is 
to support and interest the mind in the cool 
and collected state, into which a train of in- 
cidents of this description must tend to throw 
it, that he becomes necessitated to impart to 
his subject those qualities of importance 
and truth, which can be attained only by an 
adherence to history. But the end which 



99 

criticks have prescribed to tragick compo- 
sitions, and which those poets have pursued 
who have excelled in works of this descrip- 
tion, is materially different from that which 
is followed in epical productions. Suitably 
to the precepts of criticism, those poets who 
have excelled in tragick composition have 
almost exclusively aimed at moving our pity 
and terrour ; those passions which exert the 
most powerful dominion over our breast, and 
which rarely mix themselves with those softer 
emotions that generally influence our taste. 
Nay, many of the poets, particularly among 
the moderns, have carried this principle still 
further, and have ventured to involve the 
drama in all that bustle of action, and intri- 
cacy of plot, which are calculated to 
quicken our feelings at what is pathetick, 
and alarm our apprehensions at what is ter- 
rible in its subject. Those reasons of course, 
from which it has been pronounced that an 
historical subject is indispensable in the epo- 
pee, have no application in the present in- 
stance ; having been drawn from a consi- 
deration of the peculiar circumstances in 
which that department of the art is placed, 
they can have no reference to the drama, the 



100 

nature and end of which are of so totally 
different a description. 

It may be however imagined, as every 
artist is obliged to aspire after the highest 
conceivable excellence of which his compo- 
sitions are susceptible, that the truth and 
importance which exclusively belong to a 
subject founded on fact, as opposed to one 
drawn from invention, impose it as a duty 
on the tragick writer that he should construct 
his works on history. Without questioning 
the authority of the principle from which 
this inference is made, we may venture to 
doubt that the end which it proposes could 
be in any respect attained by carrying the 
project under consideration into effect. For 
a few considerations, it is presumed, will be 
sufficient to evince, that however a subject 
thus chosen might inherently possess such 
requisite qualities, as are here supposed to 
recommend a fable that is historick, they 
would become so weakened and altered in 
the representation as to prove incapable of 
heightening the effect of the drama. 

With respect to the first and principal 
particular, that greater truth may be thus 
imparted to the drama: it is difficult to 



101 

conceive how any advantage can proceed 
from its purposed union with history. The 
impressive nature of representation places 
it above deriving any benefit from such an 
alliance : for, being sustained by visible 
scenery and living characters, it thence ac- 
quires a species of artificial reality, more 
striking than any known fact can have in the 
remembrance. That we are ever deluded 
into a belief of the player's being the person 
he represents, is not now asserted : for the 
mind during the period of representation is 
engrossed by circumstances very different 
from these, or any like considerations, on the 
personal identity of the actor or character. 
The question arising now is not whether this 
artificial reality ever amounts to theatrical 
delusion ; it is sufficient, that it so far imposes 
on our belief as to make us sympathise with 
the characters in the representation. And 
this being once effected, the mind becomes 
at the time too impatient of interruption to 
be solicitous about any matter of extraneous 
or secondary importance ; and such at every 
moment of the representation must be all 
speculations on such points as whether the 
dramatick action occurred at any antecedent 
period. 



102 

Regarding then the facts of the drama 
as being not narrated, but actually renewed; 
as operating on the mind through the inter- 
vention, not of the memory, but of the 
senses ; as acquiring a species of real exist- 
ence from representation, at least that life 
and existence which makes the most forci- 
ble impression on the mind, it is pretly evi- 
dent, that the reality of its subject can in no 
respect be increased by the consideration 
of its having previously occurred. For, sup- 
posing this circumstance does affect the spec- 
tator, it is impossible that, while he is en- 
gaged by it, he can make any deduction 
from it relative to the reality of the action 
in representation, but that of its being 
absolutely untrue in that state wherein it 
principally affects his imagination. When 
we are moved by the distresses of a Macbeth 
or Richard, it is the fictitious hero alone that 
engages our attention, and excites our sym- 
pathy. The circumstance of such charac- 
ters having been once real does not increase 
our emotion, or influence our feeling for their 
sufferings : for they possess no greater power 
over our passions than an Othello or a Dou- 
glas, who never existed, i^nd when we drop 
the idea of the actor, and think of the real 



103 

character which he personates, it is evident 
that the only impression which the repre- 
sentation can give ns is that of its being sup- 
posititious : for the more true it is that Mac- 
beth or Richard once existed, the less proba- 
ble it must be that they sustain a part in the 
dramatick action. And these considerations 
are, I think, sufficient to place the possibi- 
lity of greater truth and reality being im- 
parted to dramatick poetry, by means of 
history, out of the question. 

If we have thus to resign the defence of 
historick subjects, as imparting no greater 
truth and reality than a fictitious story to 
tragedy, the chances are much against their 
being considered more suited to its end on 
the grounds of conferring greater dignity and 
importance. For it must rather tend to 
counteract than advance that powerful in- 
terest, which hurries the mind along with 
the course of representation, to transfer its 
subject from scenes of domestick misfortune, 
to those events of national concern which 
alone of the facts of history would give the 
drama the supposed elevation. A drama- 
tick subject is sufficiently elevated as to its 
importance, when the sentiments and dis- 
positions of its characters are exalted, and 



104 

their sufferings great and affecting. Though 
in the fortune of more illustrious personages 
such great epical events may be involved 
as the fate of kingdoms, and the dissolution 
of nations : yet of these the passions take 
but little concern, unless as they tend to 
heighten those strokes of private calamity, 
which affect the persons in whose fate we 
are interested, and which possess the most 
powerful influence over the breast, of which 
it is sensible. As we endeavour, by the 
mechanism of such springs to raise tragedy 
beyond its proper level ; as we aim at making 
its events more general in their influence, 
and more dignified in their importance, we 
must proportionately abridge it of those little 
resistless touches of private distress which 
find the speediest access to the heart ; and 
thus raise it out of the sphere,, in which 
the generality of those persons move, who 
are to feel its effects by the sympathy which 
places them in the state and circumstances 
of the imaginary sufferers of the drama. On 
these condi lions it is an object rather to be 
avoided, than secured, to place the drama 
and epopee on the same terms ; and thus it 
is, that those reasons eventually fail with 
respect to the former, on which history has 



105 

been considered necessary to the composi- 
tions of the latter. 

Against a position which is here as- 
sumed as granted, a modern critick appears 
to speak most decisively. After declaring 
" that tragedy prefers, or rather confines it- 
self to such actions as are most important/' — 
and " that the persons whose actions tragedy 
would exhibit to us must be of principal 
rank and dignity," he subjoins, " that the 
actions of such persons are both in them- 
selves, and in their consequences most fitted 
to excite passion f and that " whatever be 
the unhappy incidents in the story of pri- 
vate men, it is certain, they must take faster 
hold of the imagination, and of course im- 
press the heart more forcibly when related 
of the higher characters in life/' 6 These are 
assertions which the authour in question ap- 
pears to have introduced merely for the 
purpose of arraigning the modern tragedy 
as defective " in turning so constantly as it 
does upon love subjects," and on the dis- 
tresses " of private persons ;'■ so as, he adds, 
*' to have well nigh annihilated the noblest of 
the two dramas amongst us." f 

e Hurd on the Province'; of the Drama. Chan. I. § 3. 
f Td. lb. 



106 

Begging leave to deny on the evidence 
of my own feelings, which decide the very 
contrary to what the critick asserts, " that 
each of these conclusions is the direct con- 
sequence of our idea of the end of tragedy," 
I shall venture to oppose to his assumptions 
the opinion of one who may be surely al- 
lowed to have possessed no slight strength 
of judgment, and perspicacity in criticism. 
And it is a curious circumstance, that the 
critick, whom 1 now quote, has repeatedly 
determined the reverse of the above conclu- 
sions, in judging the works of Shakespeare, 
Otway, and Rowe, those poets who of all 
the moderns have shewn the greatest skill in 
swaying the passions. " The play of Timon 
is a domestick tragedy, and therefore strongly 
fastens on the attentions of the reader."'— 
" The Orphan is a domestick tragedy drawn 
from middle life. Its whole power is upon 
the affections; for it is not written with 
much comprehension of thought, or elegance 
of expression. But if the heart is interested 
many other beauties may be wanting, \'et 
not be missed"" — " This play (Jane Shore) 



3 Johnson. Gen. Observ. on Shakespeare. Vol. II. p. 215. 
* Id. Life of Otway. Vol. IX. p. 220. 



107 

consisting chiefly of domestic!* scenes and 
private distress, lays hold upon the heart/' 1 

These are conclusions in which, as they 
are dictated by feeling, not strained from 
principle, every reader joins his ready assent, 
who has witnessed the representation of 
domestic!* tragedy, and remembers how he 
was affected by the exhibition. The fact is, 
that in tragedies which employ dignified per- 
sonages to carry on the action of the fable, 
we are rarely affected by any distresses which 
might not equally belong to those who move 
in the middle sphere of life : if there is any 
thing great and magnanimous in the suffer- 
ings of such persons, it becomes doubly 
striking, from being less expected than in 
persons of a more exalted rank and heroical 
character : if there is any thing pathetick or 
terrible in their fate it must operate with 
double effect upon our passions, as lying 
more close to our sympathies. Any cata- 
strophe more moving or terrible than that 
of Othello, will not be easily pointed out in 
the whole range of dramatick composition ; 
yet it exhibits nothing which might not have 
occurred in the most private recesses of do- 



108 

mestick life : nor can it be easily shewn bow 
its passionate effects could receive any en- 
crease or diminution by supposing the per- 
sons who interest us in that drama of a rank 
more or less exalted. Neither can I think 
the critick acquires any support from the 
remark on which he founds his conclusion 
" on the absurdity," as he pleased to term it, 
of planning unimportant action in tragedy ; 
that the interests of a whole community are 
involved in the misfortunes of great and 
splendid sufferers. Without employing any 
time to refute these unsupported assump- 
tions, by abstract reasoning, we ma}' pro- 
duce from example a sufficient proof of their 
inconclusiveness. The " Samson Agonistes" 
of Milton stands perhaps without a parallel, 
as possessing a catastrophe which occasions 
important and extensive evils to persons 
the most elevated in rank and character : 
nor is it easy to conceive in what manner 
more could be made of the incidents which 
form its close, in heightening the tragick ef- 
fects of pity and terrour, than has been ac- 
complished by its authour. Yet who is there 
that, in perusing this drama, has felt his breast 
agitated with these emotions to that powerful 
degree which he must have experienced 



109 

when sitting down to some of the domestick 
stories of Moore and Southerne? 

It may be however then demanded, if the 
representation of domestick distress and the 
exhibition of private character are more 
conducive to the end of tragedy, as far as it 
intends to move our pity and alarm our ter- 
rour, how comes it to pass that poets have 
manifested in their dramatick works a gene- 
ral partiality to dignified characters, if not 
to important action also ? This question may 
find the following obvious answer. The prin- 
cipal end of tragedy is to move us to pity 
and terrour ; but tragick compositions in 
their most respectable form are likewise poe- 
tical compositions, and must consequently 
comprise those means of pleasing which 
constitute the end of all the productions of 
the art with which they thus possess an affi- 
nity. Thus it becomes not more exacted by 
the particular end of dramatick composition, 
that tragedy should aim at possessing what- 
ever can affect our passions ; than it is incul- 
cated by the general end of poetical compo- 
sition, that it should aspire at whatever is 
calculated to gratify our taste. As the beau- 
ties of sentiment and of language contribute 
in no slight degree to the end of poetry, and 
as such are materials which form an essen- 



110 

tial part of the composition of the drama ; 
when the poet neglects to secure the advan- 
tages that may be imparted to his subject 
from these sources, he must disappoint us 
of much of the pleasure which we have a 
right to demand from his productions. Flence 
it becomes a duty incumbent on him to give 
an elevation to the sentiments, and a corre- 
spondent dignity to the diction of the higher 
tragedy : and thus he is necessitated to dis- 
pose his language in a metrical form, and to 
enrich it with the embellishments of figura- 
tive expression. But that he may not wholly 
destroy our gratification, by violating pro- 
priety, he is obliged to ascribe such lan- 
guage and sentiments to characters of an 
exalted rank ; for to such personages prin- 
cipally can they be assigned in conformity 
to nature and propriety. These are the 
considerations from which, as it appears to 
me, the poet was originally induced to trans- 
fer his subject from exhibiting private per- 
sons to displaying great and dignified cha- 
racters : though the distresses of the former 
were more calculated to excite passion, they 
afforded not the same means of contributing 
to the spectator's delight, by calling in the 
resources of taste to second the impulses of 
emotion. 



Ill 

But let not these considerations be con- 
ceived to confer any general superiority on 
exalted subjects over domestick fables, as 
more calculated to promote the end of poe- 
tical composition. The principles now un- 
folded, when applied in their utmost severity, 
would reduce to an inferiour rank in the 
scale of dramatick excellence such tragedies 
only from among those which are founded 
on domestick stories, as may be distin- 
guished by the designation of familiar." 
There still remains within the confines of 
private life an inexhaustible fund of mate- 
rials in everjr respect suited to the purposes 
of dramatick perfection. Nor is this asser- 
tion founded on a mere barren speculation : 
the works of our most celebrated writers 
afford continual proofs of its sufficiency. The 
" Romeo and Juliet" of Shakespeare, and 
the " Venice Preserved" of Otway, may be 
deduced, from among many of equal perti- 
nency, as instances of dramas whose actions 
are founded on domestick distress, and whose 
characters are deduced from the private and 
middle sphere of life ; and which, neverthe- 
less, comprehend not only every effect of 
action and incident that heightens tragick 

k- Such dramas I mean as Moore's " Gamester," and Lillo's 
" George Barnwell." 



112 

interest, but also every embellishfnent of 
sentiment and diction that dignifies poetical 
composition. 

For the security of that general conclusion 
which was formerly laid down on the question 
of an historical subject tending to improve 
the drama, I am further obliged to object to 
another tenet of the critick before us : — that 
" tragedy succeeds best when the subject is 
real/" Some assertions of the same writer 
1 formerly confronted with the precepts of 
Dr. Johnson, I shall now venture to oppose 
to the present assumption the opinion of Ari- 
stotle, who manifests a general acquiescence 
in the conclusion I have endeavoured to esta^ 
blish in contradiction to this assertion. " In 
some tragedies/' says the critick, " there are 
a few known names, while the rest are ficti- 
tious ; but in others there are none, as in the 
Anthos of Agatho, where the incidents and 
the characters are equally feigned, and yet 
the drama does not less contribute to our de~ 
light" 1 ". 



1 Hukd. ub. sup. 

m Ou p^ olXKo, r.ai ev rat; rpaywo\ai;, ev svtat; p.ev ev ij ha 
rwv yvjipi[jMY ecrriv ovoy.arwv , ra Se a\\a tteTtovt^eva- ev eviai; 
OS uSsv oiov sv ruj Ayabuivt; AvSei. Opouv; yap sv mrw rare 
nipay^ara xai rx ovowara rtetoi^rai, nau &Sey yrlov ev<ppaivet. De 
Poet. § 18. 



113 

The learned crilick seems equally at a 
loss for a proof of his assumption, as he ap- 
pears in his decisions on the effects of do- 
mestick stories in the drama, in offering a 
trite quotation from a Greek comedy sup- 
posed to be written by Aristophanes, as 
assigning the reasons for this peculiarity in 
tragedy. In the passage in question, which 
contains a comparison between the tragick 
and comick departments of the art, the au- 
thour seems desirous of establishing the su- 
periour advantages of the former, on the 
supposition of the general knowledge which 
the audience previously possessed with its 
subject." But had our critick given himself 
lime for a moment's consideration, he must 
have observed that this passage brings no 
support to his theory, as being not at all ap- 
plicable to a modern audience. And however 
the poet's words may be regarded as a suffi- 
cient testimony of the truth of this conclu- 
sion when applied to ancient audiences, there 

n Ma.xa.ptov earriv tj f pay who, 

JIoiY/LLa, Y.a.'fa. iravr. stye rfpuirov 01 Xoyot 
Tito rxv StarcM sttriv eyvajptcpLsvoi, 
Ylpiv ym t'iv' eiiteiv, cv; viro^vy^ai f^ovov 
A?< ro'/ itoirfTry. Orfnrsv yap av yy fui, 
Ta, 5' a.\\a, nave' isa$w x. r. A. 

I 



114 

is good reason for rejecting it even in this 
respect : if we consult a still higher authority 
we shall find no inconsiderable countenance 
in admitting it no further than as it appears 
to be the declaration of one who wished 
to recommend his art by aggravating the 
difficulties which attended the carrying of it 
to perfection. Aristotle, who lived at a pe- 
riod which brought to the Grecian theatre 
the most enlightened audience that perhaps 
antiquity could ever collect, seems to have 
been of a different opinion from the poet. 
After condemning the conduct of such writers 
as adhered pertinaciously to hereditary sub- 
jects, he makes the declaration which has 
been already adduced, and subjoins the fol- 
lowing conclusions, which leave very little 
authority to the words of Aristophanes : — 
" It would be ridiculous to adhere too scru- 
pulously to received subjects : since those 
fables which are known, are known but to few, 
and yet conduce to the delight of all." 

II. 1. To proceed to the second point 
which has been proposed for discussion, when 

£l<rr' 8 tfxvrw; eivxi ^Trj-tsov tuiv tfa.poc$e$ofAEvwv pvSwv, 
Tfept &; a; fpaywhou ei$iv, a,vrc%£;$ou. Ka< yapyeXoior rovrt 
£i)Teiv Bitei *aj r« yvwpipa, oXiyoi; yvwpipa. £<rfiv, aAA' opws 
iv<ppcuvu TtxvTCKf. De Poet. § 18. 



115 

a fable taken from history is chosen by a 
dramatick writer, even it falls into his hands 
subject to no such restrictions in the Poetick 
Licence of altering its facts, as are binding 
on the epick poet. This I think may be 
made evident from the consideration of what 
has been just advanced on the artificial 
reality and impressive nature of dramatick 
representation. Could the mind acquiesce 
in being deflected from such interests as 
are excited by observing the action thus has- 
tened to its event, it could find little op- 
portunity, during the short period of repre- 
sentation, for attending to those defects 
which a leisurable reading enables us to de- 
lect in the epopee. And what has still more 
weight, among subjects of history, those 
chosen for the drama are of less general im- 
portance than those adapted to the epopee ; 
and being of course less minutely known, 
their violation cannot be attended with effects 
at all similar. Of the events in subjects 
thus chosen, even those which hold the 
highest rank, may as historical facts possess 
but secondary importance; and over inci- 
dents of this description I have already 
shewn that even those writers, who profess- 
edly engage in poetical compositions of the 



116 

tamest kind, may exercise very unlimited 
powers of alteration and embellishment. p 

This reasoning appears strengthened by 
the precepts, and illustrated by the prac- 
tice of one of our highest poets. Mr. Dry- 
den, speaking of the conduct observed by 
him in the historical ground-work of his 
" Indian Emperor," observes : " In it I have 
neither wholly followed the truth of the his- 
tory, nor altogether left it ; but have taken 
all the liberty of a poet to add, alter, or di- 
minish, as I thought might best conduce 



P From these considerations, strengthened by the subsequent 
authority which supports and illustrates them, I must beg leave 
to enter a protest against those conclusions of the Abbe Du Bos, 
which censure some liberties taken in this respect by Corneille 
and Racine in the French drama. See Reflex. Critiq. §. 2Q. 
The critick seems to lay great stress on the authority of Aristotle, 
which he supposes to afford him some countenance in this opinion. 
He alludes to a passage in the " Poeticks," where Aristotle cen- 
sures Sophocles for describing the death of Orestes, as occurring at 
the Pythian games, (Dc Poet. § 44.) which the critick asserts not 
to have been instituted for some time subsequent to that period. 
But various meanings have been assigned to this passage ; and 
from the context, and the general sense of the whole reasoning 
which Aristotle pursues, it appears that he censures this descrip- 
tion of the Grecian poet as containing an improbable circum- 
stance, rather than an anachronism. I cannot therefore think 
that the abbe's censure receives much support from the father of 
criticism : the passage which he adduces being but a solitary one, 
and at best but equivocal. 



117 

to the beautifying of my work : it being not 
the business of a poel to represent historical 
truth, but probability.'" 1 His practice with 
regard to ihe plot of one of his first dramas, 
" Don Sebastian," is equally deserving of 
notice, as it extends this licence to the ut- 
most bounds which are consistent with pro- 
priety. This tragedy is founded on an un- 
ascertained point of history, whether the 
prince, who gives his name to the drama, 
did, or did not, survive the battle of Alcazar. 
The authour, taking the liberty of a poet, 
and choosing that side of this doubrful ques- 
tion which best suited his purposes, formed 
the fable of this excellent tragedy on the 
supposition of the prince's having survived 
the action. And in allusion to his conduct 
he declares : — * This ground-work the his- 
tory afforded me, and I desire no better to 
build a play upon : for where the event of a 
great action is left doubtful, there the poet 
is left master. He may raise what he pleases 
on that foundation, provided he makes it 
of a piece, and according to the rule of 
probability/' r The poet's practice in these 
particular instances, corresponds with the 



i Dedicat. of Indian Emp. Works, Vol. II. p. 243. 
' Pref. to Don Sebastian. Vol. VII. p. 2Q5, 



118 

general tenour of his sentiments, when he 
speaks more at large on the principles of his 
art. In his " Essay of Dramatick Poesy/' 
we find the same precepts recommended in 
a general form. " Sometimes the slory has 
left the success so doubtful, that the writer 
is free, by the privilege of a poet, to take that 
which of two or more relations will best suit 
with his design; as, for example, in the death 
of Cyrus, whom Justin and some others 
report to have perished in the Scythian war, 
but Xenophon affirms to have died in his bed 
of extreme old age."' 

Nor is the opinion hazarded above devoid 
of support from authority of still higher cre- 
dit from being of longer standing. To the 
authority of Mr. Dry den, now adduced, we 
may confidently add that of Horace ; from 
whose precepts on the means Jeft a poet of 
new modelling old subjects for the drama 
without incurring the censure of being servile 
or unoriginal, his learned commentator draws 
the following rules. " Not to follow the trite 
obvious round of the original work ; not to 
be translators instead of imitators ; not to 
adopt any particular incident that may occur 
in the proposed model, which either decency 

* JEssay of Dramatick Poesy. Vol. XV. p. 32?. 



119 

or the nature of the work would reject/' ' 
And here it should be remembered that 
Horace does not point out such historical 
subjects merely as had been left in common 
to the adoption of every poet, but such as 
had passed into the private possession of 
some antecedent poets. By this process of 
successive adoption, the incidents must have 
become doubly impressed on the memory ; 
and consequently if a departure from histo- 
rick fidelity could be recommended by Ho- 
race under the circumstance of their final 
alteration, it could not be possibly censurable 
under their original representation, if used 
with proper restrictions. 

It seems not, however, to have been Ho- 
race's intention to authorise a licentiousness 
of alteration taken by any poet, in making 
the incidents of history, if they are of prin- 
cipal note, subservient to the caprices of 
invention." Nor let his authority be urged 



1 Hurd's Notes on Horace's Art of Poet. v. 131. 

u The conduct of M. Racine, compared with that of Eurypides, 
whom he has followed in bringing the story of Andromache on 
the stage, may be referred to as containing a just exemplifica- 
tion of the precept by which this critick would circumscribe the 
practice of every poet. The " Distrest Mother" of A. Philips 
affords also an adequate illustration of the principle in question. 



120 

on the other hand as maintaining that there 
is an absolute necessity incumbent on the 
poet of deviating from the direct train of 
fact, for the purpose of creating differences 
between his subject and the history in which 
it is recorded ; or for any other purpose than 
that of giving it a novell}', where it has been 
rendered trite and popular by some preced- 
ing poet. For this I can neither allow on my 
own part, nor on the part of Horace : such a 
mode of practice having been merely recom- 
mended by the of kick to his countrymen, 
as they borrowed their dramalick fables from 
the G reeks, who had given to every story a 
triteness by repetition. In this respect poe- 
try appears free from every restriction, and 
according as is most suitable to the end of 
the composition, or agreeable to the views 
of the writer, ma}' adopt the fidelity of his- 
torick narration, or use the licence of poe^ 
tical fiction. The closeness with which 
Shakespeare adheres to the details of most, 
if not all the authorities, whether authentick 
or fictitious, from which he drew the subject 
of his dramas, not to mention the exclusive 
attachment of several eminent cri licks to 
historical fidelity, may be insisted on as a 
sufficient justification of this assertion in 



121 

theory, and illustration of it in practice. 
Sheltering myself under such authority, I shall 
venture to dissent from the learned com- 
mentator just mentioned in part of the cen- 
sure he has passed on the " Cataline" of B. 
Jonson. The inoenious and learned critick 
has certainly misapplied in this instance his 
just and perspicacious exposition of Horace. 
In believing that theauthour of that tragedy, 
as in the two first charges urged against him, 
was to be condemned for following too 
closely the historian and orator who supplied 
his subject, he applies to him a remark 
which, if taken in its utmost rigour, would 
have affected him only if he had adopted his 
subject from some antecedent poet. 

II. 2. The mention of " Cataline" directly 
leads us to Shakespeare's " Richard II." of. 
which it has been observed that it probably 
set Jonson that example of strict adherence 
to the authority of history which he likewise 
followed in his " Sejanus." And thus are we 
led to the consideration of the historical 
drama, which brings our inquiries to the last 
point which has been proposed for investi- 
gation. 

And in the conduct of this department 



122 

of dramatick poetry, I cannot but think that 
our inimitable bard exhibits as strong marks 
of judgment as have been displayed by the 
most successful practitioners of historick 
poetry of the epick rank. The mode which 
he has adopted, of adhering literally to histo- 
rical facts, is the most cautious, and least 
likely to excite disapprobation. The state 
of a subject taken from recent and national 
history, and of one taken from remote and 
foreign history, is altogether dissimilar: of the 
former, every spectator must have a very 
different knowledge from that which he can 
acquire of the latter ; and the poet must 
always have respect to the spectator's know- 
ledge, as he intends to provide for the spec- 
tator's gratification. In this undertaking little 
success is to be expected, when he com- 
mences by violating the generally received 
notions on popular and national subjects. 

The case of the historick drama is in this 
view analogous to that of the historick epo- 
pee : and, thus, for a justification of Shake- 
speare's practice in his " Histories" we need 
not adopt the general modes of his defence. 
We are not to consider him in want of that 
apology which gives his merit but the rela- 
tive excellence arising from a comparison of 



123 

his compositions with " that stale of almost 
universal licence and ignorance in which he 
lived." w Nor ought we to consider this de- 
fence much strengthened by the considera- 
tion of his having lived under a kind of light 
of nature which exempted him from the 
written precepts of Aristotle, as from the 
rigour of a law of which he knew not the 
promulgation : x or that his practice is much 
extenuated by the circumstance of his hav- 
ing had no good model by which he might 
be led to the imitation of excellence, or 
turned from the perversions of errour. In the 
grounds of his defence it has been men- 
tioned, but with no great success in deter- 
mining the present question, that there is 
a perfect conformity between his execution 
and his plan ; and that he is not to be ar- 
raigned for having left that undone which 
he never intended. This mode of exculpa- 
tion rather removes the objection a step 
back, than sets it wholly aside. With any 
errour which is discoverable in his plan, a 
poet becomes generally and indeed funda- 
mentally chargeable : and from the rules of 



Johnson's Pref. to Shakespeare. 
Rowe's Pref, to Shakespeare. 



124 

Arislolle, as far as they are supported by 
reason and nature, no poet can purchase 
any exemption. How far Shakespeare has 
accommodated himself to these rules, when 
taken according to their spirit and to the 
extent of their application, has I think been 
alread} r made evident : so far so, indeed, thaL 
it may be summarily concluded that he will 
not suffer by any application to those parts 
of his dramas over which they profess to take 
any cognizance. 

The observation which M. de Voltaire 
has made on the historical epopee, that it is 
a dangerous enterprise, may be applied to 
the historical drama : and it may be declared 
to be such as cannot be recommended to 
any write* who does not possess more than 
uncommon address in giving interest to what 
is known, and novelt}' to what is familiar in 
his subject. In this respect historical poetry 
of the dramatick kind is placed in the same 
situation as that of the epical ; and a like 
obligation laid upon the poet who engages 
in either kind of composition to supply the 
natural deficiencies of the subject by height- 
ening those parts of his work which admit 
of alteration or embellishment. Nor should 
it be forgotten, in justice to the apologists of 



125 

Shakespeare, that his extraordinary merit in 
this respect has not escaped unnoticed ; and 
his power of gratifying our taste by heighten- 
ing those qualities which are most prominent 
and most striking in dramatick productions, 
has been justly insisted on in the defence of 
his historical accuracy. With this object 
in view Rowe has particularly dwelt on his 
skill in delineating characters. And John- 
son, with rather an apparent than a real dif- 
ference in the grounds of his defence, has 
particularly specified his irresistible power in 
moving the passions. But here the nature of 
our inquiries, as confined merely to the histo- 
rical incidents of poetry, reminds us that any 
discussion on this point should be reserved for 
another opportunity. And I think it may 
eventually be shewn, that the practice of 
Shakespeare not only falls within the verge 
of undent criticism, butthut as far as Aristo- 
tle embraces the nature and extent of his 
plan, he yields very unqualified approbation 
to the practice of a poet, who indeed no 
where deserted the suggestions of nature, and 
rarely transgressed the decisions of judg- 
ment. 

The historick drama, thus brought un- 
der the same regulations as the historick 



126 

epopee, and circumscribed by the same re- 
strictions, claims an equal right to the same 
privileges and exemptions. The licences 
which the epick writer possesses over the 
unimportant incidents in his fable, extend 
with equal latitude, and on the same princi- 
ples, to the tragedian ; and allow him the 
liberty of altering, introducing, or omitting 
all facts of this description, as far as it may 
tend to increase the beauty, or heighten the 
interest of his composition. 

Thus, according to the principles by 
which the poet takes advantage of any 
doubtful point of history, Shakespeare, in 
his " Henry IV," uses the privilege of 
his art, in making Hotspur fall by the 
hand of Prince Henry. The former, it 
is certain, was killed at the battle of 
Shrewsbury, but the authour of his death 
was unknown. The poet profited by this 
uncertainty, and ascribing the event to the 
prince, has considerably increased the gene- 
ral interest of his play, and at the same time 
has elevated his favourite character. In 
" King John," he has exhibited equal judg- 
ment in the manner he has represented the 
death of Prince Arthur. The account of 
this inhuman deed has been variously re- 



127 

lated by historians ; and the poet, by making 
it the effect of an accident, has in a great 
measure removed the odium of his death 
from his uncle, and softened down the hor- 
rours of the transaction. 

A still more striking instance of this li- 
cence, which has been pointed out by Mr. 
Dryden, occurs in his " Julius Caesar." In 
this play, which, together with " Antony and 
Cleopatra," may be justly ranked among 
historick dramas, as well on account of the 
authenticity of its events, as from the fide- 
lity with which the poet has generally ad- 
hered to history, both in its incidents and in 
their arrangement, the authour has placed 
the death of Portia some time before its ac- 
tual occurrence. He was influenced to intro- 
duce this deviation from history with the 
desire, as has been observed by Mr. Dryden, 
of giving some shadow to the anger of Bru- 
tus, and thus raising a foundation for that 
exquisite scene which thence arises between 
him and Cassius. " If he has made Brutus, 
who was naturally a patient man, to fly into 
excess at first, let it be remembered in his de- 
fence, that, just before, he has received the 
news of Portia's death ; whom the poet, on 
purpose neglecting a little chronology, sup- 



128 

poses to have died before Brutus, only lo 
give him an occasion of being more easily 
exasperated." 5. 

The justice of this observation will appear 
more evident on inspecting the scene in 
Shakespeare. 

Cass. x Hath Cassius livel 

To be hut mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him ? 

Brut. When I spoke that, I was ill tempered too. 

But again more particularly ; 

Cass. I did not think } r ou could have boen so angry. 

Buut. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. 

Cass. Of your philosophy you make no use, 

If you give place to accidental evils. 

Brut. No man bears sorrow better. — Portia is dead. 

Cass. Ha! Portia? 

Brut. She is dead. 

Cass. How 'scap'd I killing, when I cross'd you so? — 

On recurring to the principles which have 
been advanced in this chapter to defend the 
licences taken by poets in the different spe- 
cies of dramatick composition, which have 
come under our observation, it appears that 



r Pref. toTroilus and Crcssida. Vol. VI. p. 241. 
r Julius Caesar. Act IV. sc. 3. 



129 

most of the deductions hitherto made in 
reference to the subject have been drawn 
from the nature of theatrical representation, 
and the end of the drama, as directed to the 
object of exciting pity and terrour. On these 
affections of tragedy I shall beg leave to de- 
tain the attention of the reader a short time 
longer; being induced to dwell upon these 
points not less from their proving that the 
mode of practice adopted by dramatick writ- 
ers, in seeking such an end in their produc- 
tions, is that which is exclusively right, than 
from their tending to smooth some difficul- 
ties towards investigating the nature of mar- 
vellous imagery which occupies so distin- 
guished a place in both epopee and drama, 
and forms so extensive a branch in the pre- 
sent inquiiy. 

In exciting that pleasurable effect which it 
is the end of every work of taste to produce 
on the mind, it is evident that dramatick 
composition possesses some important ap- 
pendages which tend to promote our grati- 
fication, and which are excluded from the 
other species of poetical composition. That 
accession of pleasure which we experience 
from scenick representation, the importance 
c.f which we can determine on comparing the 

K 



130 

different emotions we feel in perusing a 
drama, and in seeing it acted, will suffi- 
ciently illustrate the point insisted on. But 
notwithstanding the power which theatrical 
representation possesses to conduce to our 
gratification, it is so far from contributing a 
slock of additional materials to promote the 
end of poetry, under all circumstances, that 
it ma}^ be looked upon as frequently forming 
an obstacle to its accomplishment. It may 
be considered as imposing an incumbrance 
which we are never pleased to see borne with 
such strength merely as is necessary to sus- 
tain it, but which is then only pleasing to 
behold when it is managed with such ad- 
dress as evinces superiour skill in him who 
handles it with facility. 

There are tragedies which appear to 
contain a just exemplification of this asser- 
tion, and to point out the true course which 
dramatick writers ought to take in contend- 
ing with this difficulty : and two very distin- 
guished instances in point are " Cato" and 
" Irene." It must be admitted that these 
compositions afford a very high gratification 
in the perusal. It must be equally allowed 
that the dramatick apparatus affords us an 
intrinsical pleasure arising from the justness, 



131 

if not the expressiveness of the acting, the 
beauty of the scenes, and the splendour of 
the decorations ; for these constitute the only 
entertainment we derive from pantomime. 
And yet it is generally allowed, that both of 
those tragedies rather lose than gain by re- 
presentation; affording more gratification in 
being read, than in being acted. The com- 
mon reason assigned for this seeming para- 
dox, is, that those compositions are merely 
declamatory, and are deficient in passion. 
But this reason, though it ascertains what is 
requisite to our gratification, when we wit- 
ness such dramas sepresented, does not ex- 
plain how it happens to be so : and it leaves 
the principal difficulty unaccounted for, how 
our gratification comes to be diminished, 
when we should rather expect it to be in- 
creased : as it may be maintained that the 
action of the drama must receive more spi- 
rit, the characters more life, and the passion 
more efficacy from representation. The only 
reason which I know, that, comprising the 
force of this objection at the same time solves 
the difficulty, is deducible from the circum- 
stance of there being a certain degree of 
incompatibility between dramatick repre- 
sentation and pathetick emotion. From 
which it seems to follow by a regular in- 



152 

ference, that passion, from being calculated 
to counteract this effect of exhibition, is the 
necessary end of the drama. 

Whatever may be the advantages which 
representation affords the dramatick writer, 
they appear to be attended in some cases 
with corresponding inconveniences arising 
from its imparting to his composition a de- 
gree of reality which is at variance with the 
truth of the represented subject. We never 
sit down to any dramatick representation and 
suffer ourselves to be lost in the interest 
which it is intended to excite, without hav- 
ing our attention recalled to this circum- 
stance. But it is in those plays, of our own 
and other languages, Avhich consist in cold 
declamation that this doctrine is principally 
exemplified : in these we particularly feel 
that the expression conveyed by the repre- 
sentation is more strong than that imparled 
by the subject which it shadows ; in fact the 
incident of the plot is regarded as mere act- 
ing, the idea of the performer engaging us 
more than the character which he personates. 
And the consideration of this circumstance 
must impress us with not merely a mo- 
mentary conviction, but a protracted con- 
sciousness, that the whole representation is 



133 

untrue. Little indeed seems necessary for 
this purpose ; which must be generally evi- 
dent to every person who witnesses theatrical 
representation : for no fact can be true in its 
occurrence more than once, as I have al- 
ready had occasion to observe, much less can 
it have a repeated occurrence in a place so 
circumscribed and so situated as the area of 
a theatre. 

That no incident or description is capa- 
ble of moving our sympathy, of which the 
strongest impression we retain is that of its 
being unreal, might be almost assumed as 
self-evident. But as the effect which is ex- 
perienced from the representation or narra- 
tion of purely fictitious incident, renders this 
assumption problematical, it may not be un- 
necessary to establish it by proof. To take 
an instance therefore for this purpose of the 
least exceptionable kind, that, in which the 
emotions of the human breast are affected 
by distress arising from the narration or ob- 
servation of what is conceived to be real : we 
have only to impress the person who com- 
miserates the state of the supposed sufferer 
with a sense that the representation is un- 
true, and his emotion immediately subsides 
with the discovery. When our sympathies 



134 

are powerfully affected by fictitious distress, 
we find they equally yield on the application 
of the same remedy. It is indeed a resource 
to which persons of a livelier sensibility are 
often driven, in order to relieve themselves 
from the pain of witnessing the imaginary 
distress of fictitious story. Certain pictures 
of virtue suffering beyond what we wish to 
believe true often force our feelinp-s to take 
refuge from the painfulness of dwelling on 
such subjects, and urge us to a remembrance 
that the portraiture is a fabrication. There 
is scarcely a reader of Richardson, who will 
not find constant occasion to fly for relief 
to this expedient ; who will not frequently 
experience this struggle between sense and 
feeling, and add his suffrage to the truth of 
those deductions. The resource to which he 
uniformly has a recurrence is that of believ- 
ing the representation to be untrue ; and 
the moment he succeeds thus far, it dissi- 
pates his delusion, and terminates his sym- 
pathy. 

It must be evident from hence, that dra- 
matick representation has a tendency to 
counteract dramatick effect in having a 
power to delect the want of truth in the 
composition which is presented for our plea- 



135 

sure. Regarding pleasure as being most 
intense when it consists most in emotion, and 
as constituting in all cases the end of poetry; 
this appendage of the drama must be 
brought under certain discipline, not only 
that it may contribute to the advancement, 
but that it may not counteract the very end of 
the art. And the only course left the artist in 
this case seems to be that precisely which is 
followed by the novelist; namely, to divert 
the mind from the sense of the representation's 
being untrue, by occupying it with other and 
more powerful considerations. 

The means by which the dramatick poet 
is enabled to secure this end consists, as is 
admitted by common consent, in throwing 
more passion into the dramatick. effect. And 
the sufficiency of such means in accomplish- 
ing such an end is easily evinced. The im- 
pression which we receive from feeling what 
is pathetick in the subject is that of powerful 
emotion : while that which we derive from 
observing what is untrue in the representa- 
tion is nothing more than cold perception. 
The weaker sense becomes of course in- 
volved in, and superseded by, the stronger. 

This position must be the more readily 
admitted on considering the effect of pas- 
sionate language and sentiment when aided 



136 

by action and gesture, which is not merely 
powerful, but overcoming; and which has the 
direct tendency to engross the bosom so fully 
as to leave it insensible to all lesser considera- 
tions : of which we need no other proof than 
the agitation of our own breast, and the vi- 
sible emotion betrayed by others. But the 
same position seems to follow by a regular 
inference from what has been already ad- ' 
vanced a on the incompatibility of such a 
sense, as that excited by the want of truth 
in any subject, with that sympathy which is 
awakened by emotion. In those appeals 
from the feelings lo the understanding, by 
which we seek to relieve the pain excited by 
the representation of fictitious distress, we 
acquire sufficient proof of the efficacy of the 
former in overpowering and superseding the 
cold deductions of the latter. For, if there 
be any force allowed to the conclusions for- 
merly made, unless in such a contest this 
sense of the subject's being untrue is wholly 
obliterated, there can be no passion felt, 
and of course none to bear up against. 
And indeed the difficulty which Ave find 
in maintaining the ascendancy over our- 
selves, when hurried along the tide of our 

a Ste page 13 4. 



137 

emotions, the immediate address which we 
make to truth to arrest us in the course of" 
our agitation, and the feebleness, nay often, 
the inefficacy of her efforts to prevent us from 
being again borne down the stream of our 
feelings, contain very decisive evidence of 
the deductions now made respecting the con- 
trary nature of the mental affections under 
consideration, and the tendency of the one 
to overpower and supersede the other. 

The application of this reasoning to the 
solution of the difficulty before us is now 
easy, if not obvious. When there is no 
passion infused into the drama, it necessarily 
happens that more is given up than gained 
by the accession of representation : the ac- 
tion, the characters, and the dialogue losing 
more, by the union, in point of truth, than 
they acquire in spirit. Such tragedies of 
course please more in the reading, than in 
the acting. 

But when the poet succeeds in infusing 
this spirit into the composition of his work 
by making it more impassioned, the diffi- 
culty which opposed his attainment be- 
comes an auxiliary to advance it. The steep 
which formed an ascent to retard his pro- 
gress, as he pressed towards the summit, 



338 

creates a declivity to accelerate it now that 
he has advanced beyond it. With respect 
to the assistance which he may derive from 
the mere scenick apparatus in promoting 
dramatick deception, I shall have occasion 
to mention it hereafter. But it is in the 
action and gesture of the performer that the 
passion of the drama has life and existence : 
it is he who speeds that impulse to the breast 
which the poet merely directs, or feebly com- 
mences. And so irresistible is the united 
influence which they exert in making our 
reason the dupe of our sympathy, that 
though they may not succeed in deluding us 
into the general belief of the representation's 
being real, they beguile us into a temporary 
forgetfulness of its being fictitious. In which 
circumstance we seem to have a sufficient 
solution of the paradox, how so wild and 
visionary a notion as that of perfect drama- 
tick delusion originated, by which the judg- 
ment of so many criticks has been misled, 
and the practice of so many poets perverted. 
And these deductions seem to point out 
the causes which confine the end of tragedy, 
as Aristotle has justly observed, to exciting 
our pity and terrour. For these passions are 
not only necessary to sustain the incum- 



139 

brance of declamation and exhibition, but 
are efficacious in heightening the end of the 
production by warming our pleasure into 
emotion : for in being the most powerful of 
which we are sensible, they are almost the 
only passions, which, while they are calcu- 
lated to contribute to our gratification, have 
force sufficient to overcome the sense we 
possess of the falsity of the representation. 

Nor can I close this section without ob- 
serving, that the same considerations may 
be prosecuted to solve that point which 
has so much exercised the ingenuity of the 
critieks ; how it happens that tragedy pleases 
by exciting painful emotion ? Among the ap- 
parent causes of which we may mention the 
effect of theatrick representation in impressing 
us occasionally with a sense of the exhibition's 
being unreal; and of dramatick action in 
lulling us into a temporary forgetfulness of 
its want of truth, by swaying our passions. 
From the first of these circumstances, every 
facility is afforded the spectator in taking 
refuge from his feelings when thev are trans- 
ported beyond the verge of pleasure into the 
conterminous bounds of pain. And from 
the second the artist is furnished with the 
easiest expedient of exciting the strongest 



140 

emotion while he offers the least violence to 
feeling: from hence in fact those delinea- 
tions of passion, which are comparatively 
weak, acquire power to affect us most sen- 
sibly; in a word, to touch us most, while 
they pain us least. And even when the poet 
ventures to exercise the strongest influence 
over our breasts, they both seem to multiply 
most those sensations which are pleasurable, 
and diminish those which are painful in the 
exhibition, by rendering the latter more tran- 
sient, and the former more frequent. Thus 
they give us pain principally in the retro- 
spect, or involve it in that grateful sensation 
which arises from the consciousness of our 
having ranged our feelings on the side of the 
oppressed, and given up our bosoms to par- 
ticipate in the anguish of the unfortunate. 
And these feelings operating with the more 
general one of pity, which is not of the pain- 
ful kind ; and aided by that interest which 
arises from the structure of the fable, renders 
the aggregate of emotion produced by the 
piece generally pleasurable. 






SECTION II. 

OF 

MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS. 



143 



OF MARVELLOUS INCIDENTS. 



The circumstance which originally con- 
spired to bring history into the composition 
of poetry, as it conveyed it in the mixed 
state of being authentick and fabulous, must 
have introduced into the art fanciful imagery 
as well as natural description. When poetry 
was first cultivated, history being committed 
to tradition must have taken a cast from the 
ignorance and credulity of those persons by 
whom it was orally transmitted ; and hence, 
however it originated in matter of fact, it 
soon imbibed a tincture of fiction from the 
channel through which it passed. In the 
state wherein the general incidents of history 
were thus presented to the poet, he probably 
wanted the power and the inclination of se- 
parating in that part which he chose for his 
subject, what was fictitious from that w T hich 
was fact; and, as he thus adopted a story 
which partook not less of fiction than of 
truth, the art even in his hands became 



144 
possessed of marvellous imagery from its 



origin. 



But since knowledge has become more 
extended, and credulity has yielded to phi- 
losophy, we have become enabled to disco- 
ver a sensible difference in the matter of the 
historian, which the fathers of poetry either 
overlooked or disregarded. We are able to 
draw a line between what is credible and 
what is false in his narrative, and thus come 
to separate what is fable in his composition 
from what is properly denominated history. 
Thus it is, that we become capable of fixing 
a standard by which the licences used in his 
descriptions may be ascertained ; as he ad- 
heres to truth and probability we account his 
practice regular and natural ; but when he 
deviates from them, and follows not what is 
history but what is fable, we consider his 
practice licentious and arbitrary ; and that 
it is only with a view to the licences allow- 
able in the art, that we permit him to take 
such liberties, may be easily seen from our 
judgment on the conduct of the historian ; 
since in the works of the latter we pronounce 
all such liberties to be striking blemishes 
Which do not admit of defence and scarcely 
of palliation. 



145 

Having determined this much, the nature 
of such licences as exist in this department 
of the art may be easily ascertained, and 
shewn to possess every necessary conformity 
to the definition formerly given of Poetick 
Licence in general. When the poet's de- 
scriptions are corroborated or contradicted 
by history, his mode of practice differs in 
nothing from that which has been discussed 
in the preceding part of this inquiry : what- 
ever is licentious in the one case is licentious 
in the other, and is to be accounted for on 
the same principles. But when his words 
have no reference either to recorded or tra- 
ditionary fact, there is no alternative left 
him but to follow nature, or deviate from it. 
In the former case it is evident he uses no 
licence ; for he is an imitator by profession, 
and generally follows no other archetype but 
nature, This consideration should beof course 
set out of the case, as wholly beside the pur- 
pose of the present inquiry. The question 
on the nature of Poetick Licence is conse- 
quently limited to the last consideration ; 
that in which the poet departs from na- 
ture. 

In asserting that a poet or any artist de- 
viates from nature, we cannot be understood 



146 

to speak with a reference to any particular 
appearance which she assumes in the exter- 
nal sensible world. In all such appear- 
ances, what we know under the term nature, 
is not to be found. Animals formed with a 
greater or a fewer number of parts than 
usual are properly denominated unnatural ; 
and this term is applied to objects which ex- 
hibit but slight deviations from the general 
appearance of things. Any part of the 
human frame formed larger than the com- 
mon dimensions ; any limb swoln beyond the 
usual size, is designated by the same term. 
These examples are sufficient to evince, that 
when we speak of nature, we express our- 
selves with a reference to her general laws ; 
and that it is only what accords with, or de- 
viates from these that we term natural or 
the contrary. These general laws when sys- 
tematized will, it may be granted, form what 
we should consider a science. When reduced 
under general heads, as they are to a certain 
degree in every mind, they possess the essen- 
tial properties of such : being knowledge 
collected by observation, generalized by ab- 
straction, and reduced into a systematic!* 
form. It is indeed impossible to ascribe 
ll.em any existence but in science: when 



147 

taken out of this state and considered with a 
reference to reality, they form but a series of 
particular laws, which admit of numberless 
exceptions. The poet> in being said to de- 
viate frorii nature, must be consequently 
meant to deviate from her general laws as 
abstracted, and embodied in science. Every 
liberty, which he takes of the preternatural 
kind, conforms of course to the definition 
originally given of Poetick Licence, as it is 
virtually a deviation from that standard by 
which this quality is estimated. 

As to the object sought in taking such 
liberties, it differs nothing from that used 
where the departure is made from history, 
and consequently from that specified in the 
general definition : it must be made for the 
reasons already declared, for the purpose of 
rendering the composition more striking* 



148 



CHAP. I. 

OF THE ROMANT1CK EPOS. 

It has been the fate of poetry to have had 
the same process which was applied to sepa- 
rate fable from mixed history, likewise ex- 
tended to reject marvellous imagery from its 
composition. Thus some criticks, of no 
small reputation, have maintained that fanci- 
ful description, on account of ils being repug- 
nant to truth and nature, should be wholly 
withheld from poetical invention. 

The general force of such objections to 
the marvellous fictions of poetry has been 
confirmed, rather than annulled, by those 
criticks who have undertaken the recommen- 
dation,' as well as by those who have entered 
upon the defence of this part of poetry. The 
former have found fewer strong positions to 
be commended, than it seems to possess ; and 
have not made any provision against the 
attacks which might be directed towards 
those points in which it is assailable. For, 
fastening on the powers which marvellous 
poetry possesses to delight every description 



149 

of reader, and observing this to be precisely 
the end of poetry, thence reasoning on the 
fitness of the former to promote the latter, 
they have concluded on its forming a neces- 
sary ingredient in poetical composition. 
And this it most assuredly would, if the ob- 
jections of those who oppose its being em- 
ployed to such a purpose did not leave that 
problematical which this reasoning assumes 
as granted ; if in fact it was not question- 
able that marvellous imagery does contribute 
to the gratification of such readers as are ca- 
pable of feeling a solid delight in what is 
natural and affecting in the art ; an art which 
has been by many thought possessed of ade- 
quate powers to please without the assistance 
of what is forced and incredible. 

It is to do away the force of the objec- 
tions thus urged, and to show not merely 
that it does please, but that it has a right to 
please every description of reader, that they, 
who enter more actively into the defence of 
the marvellous, principally direct their inten- 
tions. And of the reasonings which have been 
employed to this purpose, those advanced by 
two cri ticks of no inconsiderable repute, are 
more particularly deserving of notice, as 



150 

possessing all the weight of being derived 
from high authority. 

The grounds which the first of these 
criticks, whose opinions have been directed 
to this object, has found for the marvellous 
imagery of poetry to support itself, may be 
stated as follows. The poetical world is 
taken as true by assumption ; and any fabu- 
lous system being admitted by supposition, 
nothing introduced in its detail is questioned 
as false by those who, are initiated in its mys^ 
teries ; especially if the fiction is agreeable 
to verisimilitude, and has shadowed under it 
some appearance of truth b . Though as no 
proof of any parity of reasoning, yet, as the 
circumstance may explain this obscure and 
unsatisfactory doctrine, I shall select a pas-^ 
sage from the critick mentioned in the second 
place, but with some alteration in its mean„ 
ing ana' application. " It is not true that all 
is unnatural and monstrous, as is pronounced 
to be the case in the Italian poets, because 
their subjects are blended with the wonderful: 
for if we admit as probable some stroke of 



b Bouhours. La maniere de bien penser. Dial. I. p. 14. ed. 
Par. l68S> 



151 

enchantment, as the marvellous conveyance 
of Armida to the happy island in Tasso, 
every thing which succeeds that circumstance 
will be found natural, and suitable to our 
common notions of probability/' c 

This it must be admitted is a legitimate 
conclusion ; but let it be observed, that it is 
but hypothetical ; and of course establishes 
nothing more than that the second part of 
the proposition follows from the first. Re- 
garded in this light, all that it maintains, is, 
that we shall believe the fictions of poetry if 
we can believe the mythological systems on 
which they are founded. But the difficulty 
is thus removed only by raising a greater : 
for it can allow of but little doubt, that 
where any marvellous production is submit- 
ted for our belief, if we have any hesitation 
in admitting its probability on the grounds 
of internal verisimilitude, we cannot admit 
it on account of any assumed principle, 
which is not only liable to the same doubts 
with the composition in question, but which, 
in that indistinct view wherein it must be 
regarded, cannot find the same support for 
its verisimilitude as is attendant on a produc- 



Hurd on Chivalry and Romance. Let. X. 



152 

tion placed before our observation with all 
its striking circumstances. 

How the cause of the marvellous part of 
poetical composition has come to fail under 
this person who volunteered his services in 
its vindication, may be easily accounted for. 
He had the support of a favourite system in 
view. For having constructed a theory on 
a confined principle ; " that truth is the test 
of perfection in all the sentiments of good 
composition, and that such as want this foun- 
dation must be vicious ;" d on applying this 
principle to poetry he found itirreconcileable 
with marvellous imagery, that most engag- 
ing part in the composition of the art. To 
reduce the innumerable train of exceptions 
to his theory which arose from this quarter, 
and which ought to have shewn the critick 
the narrowness of the principle on which 
he built it, there was left him but the 
one expedient which he adopted ; he esta- 
blished the title of poetical sentiments of this 
kind to truth, but to that species of it which, 
being hypothetical, may conceal a false con- 
clusion under a just deduction. 

The defence into which Bishop Hurd, the 

d Bouhouks. Ubi supr, p. 12. 



15S 

other critick under consideration, has been 
drawn, in undertaking the justification of 
the Italian writers in the marvellous part of 
their poetry, is more specious, but not more 
conclusive : it is besides equally exception- 
able from placing the matter under discus- 
sion in a wrong point of view. The object 
of this authour is to establish " that it is er- 
roneous to suppose that poets expect to have 
their fictions believed ; or aim at more than 
getting their readers to imagine their possi- 
bility/' — That no capable reader is concerned 
about the truth, or even the credibility of his 
fancies ; but is most gratified when he is 
brought to conceive the existence of such 
things as his reason informs him did not exist, 
and were not likely to have happened.' 

To this theory we may all readily sub- 
scribe as far as it asserts, " that no poet ex- 
pects to have his fictions believed; that no 
capable reader is concerned about their 
truth." But with respect to the remaining 
clauses, " that poets only aim at getting their 
readers to imagine the possibility of their 
fictions, and that no capable reader troubles 
himself about the credibility of such fancies," 

*r ~„ — ' ... -■ ' " - ' ' .1 , ' , , ■ ' ' ' ■- 

• Hurd. Ubi supr. 



1,1 



154 

on which the strength of the critick's cause 
appears to be rested, they demand a little 
consideration before they can be admitted. 
It will not indeed require much labour to 
detect some latent contradictions glossed 
over in the whole of the critick's reasoning. 
In the different grounds which he assumes, 
he advances positions which, if they are con- 
sistent in themselves, and reconcileable with 
each other, do not offer any thing to the 
purpose. 

As to what is advanced by him in the first 
place, it does not carry the defence of the 
marvellous part of poetry beyond an irrele- 
vant remark ; which after merely setting the 
difficulty, which it undertakes to remove, in 
another point of view, leaves it just as it was 
found. For how is the objection raised 
against the want of truth and probability in 
such fictions as the Italians affected by the 
remark, " that the poet has nothing more to 
do than to bring us to imagine their possibi- 
lity ;" Avhen this is much more than any ob- 
jector, or indeed any unprejudiced reader 
can admit they have effected ? And this is so 
far the case, that the very remark, which is 
offered here in favour of those fictions, might 
be urged as justifying their being censured : 



155 

since it might be assigned as a sufficient 
cause for rejecting these improbabilities, that 
thej cannot be brought to the standard of 
any thing which we can conceive possible. 
The instance which the critick before us has 
chosen from Tasso to illustrate a different po- 
sition will at once substantiate and exem- 
plify this remark ; I mean the marvellous 
conveyance of Armida to the happy island : 
this fiction, it may be remarked, is assail- 
able in its probability, on the very grounds 
of our not being able to, imagine it possible f 
how any such occurrence could have hap- 
pened. 

As to what is advanced in the second place; 
that " no capable reader troubles himself 
about the truth, or even the credibility of 
these fancies ;" and that " he is best pleased 



f But the critick may have probably meant by " our being 
brought to imagine the possibility of any thing," our being merely 
brought to form an idea of it, independent of any positive exist- 
ence which it could have had, or was likely to have. Thus we 
may easily form an idea of such an animal as a chimera, or hippo- 
gryphin, though we believe it hardly possible such animals could 
exist in reality. Taking the authour's words in this sense, 
what he advances in the second place is merely a confirmation 
of the present explanation, and must of course fall when the 
second position proves untenable. 



156 

when he is made to conceive the existence 
of such things as his reason tells him did not, 
and were not likely to exist/' I cannot be 
easily brought to admit it. As the former 
part of this defence proves nothing, this part 
would prove too much. For it offers as strong 
an argument for our being pleased with all the 
disgusting improbabilities of Mandeville's 
" Travels/' and Lucian's " True History/' as 
with " the specious wonders" of Shakespeare's 
magick, his ghosts, and witches. Our reason 
tells us that none of the improbabilities con- 
tained in those works ever did, or were likely 
to exist ; and yet we can bring ourselves to 
conceive their existence, as they contain no 
impossibilities in themselves. But however 
possible I may find it to conceive such impro- 
babilities as men having dogs heads, animals 
walking upon the sea, or fishes building nests 
in the trees, it will require something more 
than a mere assertion to convince me " that 
I should not trouble myself about the cre- 
dibility of such fancies, but be pleased with 
them because I can be brought to imagine 
their existence." 

Thus it eventually happens that the mar- 
vellous fictions of poetry are left as unsup- 
ported as they were found by these apolo- 



157 

gists. One general objection lies against 
the different modes of reasoning which both 
cri ticks have adopted, and it reveals the 
difficulty which caused their failure. The 
oiie endeavoured to establish a closer inti- 
macy between marvellous fiction and truth 
than their dissimilar nature would admit : the 
other aimed at severing that relationship by 
which they should be generally connected. 
And it is not less on account of having to 
regret their failure, than having observed the 
causes from which it originated, that I have 
been induced to venture another effort in its 
defence. I know of no means by which the 
grounds they have assumed may be prose- 
cuted to establish the conclusions which they 
have failed in supporting; nor do I think 
such means are ascertainable ; and for these 
reasons which I have just offered in shewing 
how their respective undertakings have mis- 
carried. If therefore the vindication which 
they have left in this state is to be made out, 
I believe it must originate from a different 
view of the matter, and be prosecuted on dif- 
ferent principles. 

It cannot be admitted that we believe 
the marvellous fictions of poetry, for with 
respect to the machinery of Homer, however 



158 

consistent may be the system of mythology 
on which it is founded, such never happened 
to be the case of any modern reader who 
possessed a sane mind. Nor are we wholly 
regardless of the truth or credibility of such 
fancies ; for they may be so unartfully con- 
structed as to leave no other impression, but 
that of disgust at their absurdity. And yet* 
that I may advert to the original objection 
raised against this part of poetry, it may be 
admitted that they are neilher probable nor 
true ; for this is a remark very little to the 
purpose when such fictions are so constructed 
as not to force the sense of their defective- 
ness in this respect into the mind. It was 
neither probable nor true that Garrick was 
Lear or Othello, or that he suffered any of 
those sensations which he is allowed lo have 
expressed with so much truth of nature ; and 
yet our being able to make this remark did 
not prevent him from moving the sympathies 
of the most crowded audience. It is neither 
probable nor true that such persons as Fields 
ing's Amelia, or Richardson's Clementina, 
ever existed or acted as we are told ; yet 
this circumstance does not prevent us from 
feeling ourselves deeply interested in all they 
are represented to have done and suffered. 



159 

-And the critick, who, by coolly adverting to 
this circumstance, would attempt to disturb 
the fascinating delirium into which we had 
forgotten ourselves while engaged in the 
contemplation of such characters, would 
surely not be requiled for his pains with our 
applause either of his judgment or his feel- 
ings. 

How it comes to be the case that We dis- 
pense with truth and reality in fictitious his* 
tory, and suffer ourselves to be affected by the 
unreal representation of the drama, has been 
already shewn; the authours of such pro- 
ductions succeed in exciting emotions which 
are more powerful than the impressions com- 
municated to us by the want of such qualities 
in their subject.' The same principle, with little 
alteration, merely in the mode of its appli- 
cation, will serve likewise to account for 
the pleasure we receive from marvellous im- 
agery, and to justify the reasonableness of 
admitting it as a legitimate ingredient into 
poetry, since it contributes by allowable 
means to promote that pleasure which is the 
end of the art. 

What, in fact, the passions of pity and 
terrour are to the dramatick poet, those of 
surprise and admiration are to the fanciful 



160 

poet; they are respectively, mental affe 
tions of the most powerful kind : such as en- 
gross the whole mind, and exclude the en- 
trance of any lesser considerations. How much 
the dramatick poet makes use of the former 
in contributing to our gratification in the 
closet, when he promotes our pleasure with- 
out the aid of representation, is a point on 
which I need not here enlarge, as it is 
admitted from feeling;. From what has been 
already discussed, it is evident that he fre- 
quently attains this end at the expense, and 
in violation, of truth. It is by the assistance 
of the latter that the fanciful poet is enabled 
to convert to his purposes that marvellous 
creation over which poetical invention ex- 
tends its powers. The intenseness, the 
novelty, the very improbability of every 
object and occurrence of the fanciful regions 
through which he hurries us, keep our mind 
under the perpetual dominion of surprise and 
admiration; 8 and throw us into that state 

s We may here observe by the way, when too great a vio- 
lation is offered to probability, as in the instances deduced from 
Lucian and Mandeville, how it happens, that the mind rejects 
as culpable the fiction in which such a liberty is taken. For 
when fictions of this kind are presented to us we cannot feel those 
emotions of astonishment and admiration, which are the end of 
such poetry, being engaged with a sense of their improbability : 



161 

of uncollected emotion which will admit un- 
questioned what has scarcely the shadow of 
truth. Our advancement in it may be com- 
pared to our passage through a wild, while 
under the influence of superstition and fear, 
in which every shadow, motion, and object 
appear to be not less real than preternatural. 
Our reason might convince us that it is our 
senses only that are perverted, and our rea- 
son may probably have this effect when we 
again pass over the same grounds : but rea- 
son itself must depend on the evidence of 
our senses, and in this case they determine 
against all her conclusions. These are 
effects which the fanciful poet, from adopts 
ing the superstitions of the age in which he 
lives, has literally a power to realize in his 
narrations, though in a weaker degree than 
they are felt in reality; And when he exerts 
this sway over our minds, we do not stoop to 
examine the truth or the probability of the 



which sense being the most striking of those excited by the com- 
position takes the fastest hold of our observation. And the con- 
sideration of this point adds no slight confirmation to the reason- 
ing which has been deduced to account for the pleasure we de- 
rive from such parts of poetry; as it seems to favour the sup- 
position, that, when the particular emotions of admiration and 
astonishment are not awakened, such poetry loses sight of its end> 
and affords no pleasure to the reader. 

M 



162 

fancies by which he works our illusion. This 
is a task to which we do not turn, until we 
lay down the work, and the impression ha"s 
subsided from the removal of the object that 
affected us. 

I believe an appeal might be made to 
the feelings of any reader of a marvellous 1 
poem for a confirmation of this reasoning. 
Nor should I have any scruples to select in 
the first instance the " Orlando Furioso" as 
producing the effects on the mind which I 
have just described, if the cry which has 
been so unjustly raised against that extra* 
ordinary production did not incapacitate 
half its readers from feeling the beautiful 
wonders of its fictions, by leading them ra- 
ther to doubt than to yield to the pleasure 
which they are calculated to excite. And 
this is not a matter of mere supposition ; it 
may be' taken, as proved, on the testimony 
of the authour's own countrymen, who, 
though they have condemned him for the 
conduct of his poem, h have generally admit- 
ted the delight which his fictions afford every 
description of readers. His great poetical 



h See Pellegrino. Dial, dell' Epic. Poes. Opere di Tasso 
Tom. IV. p. 421-2. 



163 

rival and successour Tasso, not to mention our 
own Spenser, is an illustrious instance ; who, 
though he has attacked the episodical struc- 
ture of Ariosto's fable in theory, and rejected 
it in practice, has followed it in the boldness 
of its fictions with a closeness of imitation* 
that leaves us a convincing proof of his hav- 
ing regarded them with the common admira- 
tion of his countrymen. 

I have chosen to insist particularly on the' 
" Orlando Furioso," as the charges of violat- 
ing truth and probability have been urged 
against the fictions of that poem with the 
greatest plausibility. If the reader will 
again acquiesce in Our descending from the 
great examples so recently mentioned j we 
inay have a more Convincing and familiar 
proof of the principle which it is my object 
to illustrate. Some works of the marvellous 
kind, which have latterly acquired an exten- 
sive popularity, will probably set the matter 
in a clearer light, than any poetical work of 
the same description extant; I would be 
understood to mean those compositions which 
unite the fictions of the antient romance with 
the interest of the modern novel. These pro- 
ductions receive every benefit arising from a 
fair trial, as taking them up with ho inten- 



164 

tion of scrutinizing their critical merits or 
defects, we turn them over with feelings so 
far disengaged from other interests as to be 
susceptible of those impressions which they 
may be calculated to excite. From the in- 
satiable avidity with which we\ are hurried 
through those wonderful descriptions in 
which the modern romance abounds, and 
from the extreme gratification with which we 
confess ourselves to be conveyed to that 
eventful moment, when the charm is dis- 
solved, and our expectations answered, it may 
be surely inferred that our sense of the false- 
hood or improbability is not prominent in 
the pleasure we take in their wildness and 
marvellousness. Were this the case our in- 
ducement to proceed in the story would be 
irreconcileable with what we experience and 
admit to be the case : we should in fact lay 
down sach works as finding less to delight 
than to displease us in continuing the pe- 
rusal. 

These considerations, strengthened by an 
exemplification so familiar as to give every 
reader a power of deciding for himself, ap- 
pear to me to establish convincingly some 
points which were assumed without proof at 
the commencement of this defence of the 



165 

marvellous descriptions of poetry ; — that the 
sensations which we feel on being hurried 
through marvellous narrations are of a kind 
the most powerful and interesting ; and that 
the mind which yields itself up to the influence 
of this imagery is too much transported to 
take account of the falsehood of those de- 
scriptions which work its illusion. 

If we find it difficult to define the precise 
nature of these sensations, it amounts almost 
to a proof that they are the unallayed emo- 
tions of surprise and admiration. For the 
feelings with which we read those produc- 
tions possess all the characteristick marks of 
these mental affections. They are emotions 
not only of that powerful nature which ex- 
clude the entrance into the mind of all 
weaker considerations, but of that captivat- 
ing kind which contribute to interest while 
they delight us ; a circumstance b} r which 
they seem to be particularly distinguished 
from other emotions. And they principally, 
if not exclusively among all the affections of 
the breast, may be wound up to such a degree 
of intenseness as will suspend the powers of 
recollection. While on the contrary the 
sense of falsehood or improbability having 
no connection with emotion or delight can- 



166 

not be felt, and either become interesting, or 
cease to be remembered : forming; of course 
no part of that impression which we receive 
from the perusal of such productions, they 
afford the fullest proof of the strength of that 
emotion in which they are involved, and by 
which they are overpowered; which is a 
quality that particularly characterizes the 
mental affections of surprise and admiration. 
It may be presumed, that there is not any 
person who, after he has read such produc- 
tions, does not retain a conviction of having 
felt those contrary sensations, which I con- 
ceive to operate in opposite directions, and 
who if he could recall any thing of the par- 
ticular manner in which he was affected, 
could not even point out certain parts which 
he admired, though he could not describe 
the exact nature of his sensations ; and even 
specify particular passages where he ceased 
to be interested, from feeling the idea, of 
their improbability preponderate over the 
pleasure they were otherwise calculated to 
excite. 

If there is any reader who has felt the 
force of such sensations, yet entertains a 
doubt of what may be precisely their nature 
and appellation, they may be identified on, 



167 

the authority of one, who possessed not less 
a correctness of judgment, than a sensibility 
of taste, and ascertained to be the emotions 
of surprise and admiration which I have de- 
clared in the beginning. " These descrip- 
tions," says Mr. Addison, on the fairy way of 
writing, " raise a pleasing kind of terror in 
the mind of the reader, and amuse his ima- 
gination with the strangeness and novelty of 
the persons who are represented in them. 
We are pleased with surveying the different 
habits and behaviour of foreign countries, 
how much more must we be delighted 
and surprised, when we are led as it were 
into a new creation, and see the persons 
and manners of another species?" 1 

And hence there appears to be a point 
established of no small importance in esti- 
mating the justness, and determining the 
perfections of fanciful imagery ; for thus the 
end of marvellous poetry is not only ascer^ 
tained, but its conformity to that pleasure 
which is the general end of the art is at once 
displayed ; and shewn to possess as marked 
a character as that produced by tragick com- 
position : marvellous poetry intending to 

i Spectator, No. 41 9. 



168 

please by exciting the emotions of surprise 
and admiration, as dramatick pleases by 
awakening those of pity and terrour. 

From this reasoning it must appear, that 
marvellous productions, so far from forming 
a distinct class of poetry, are not more than 
accidentally different from that species of 
composition which may be contradistin- 
guished under the title of being natural ; and 
of course that they are not liable to any ob- 
jection which might not be applied so as to 
affect the vitality of the art at large : as the 
same reasoning, which is urged to expunge 
them from the list of the legitimate compo- 
sitions of poetry, might be extended to pro- 
scribe some of the most severe compositions 
of the art, on account of the striking simila- 
r's ty that exists between them. With respect 
to the resemblance that holds between it and 
the drama, it has been already made suffi- 
ciently apparent : they equally aim at excit- 
ing pleasure, and at exciting it by the means 
of powerful emotions, and frequently with- 
out regard to truth or reality. Between it 
and the Historick Poem (which is of all epi- 
cal compositions the most probable and true) 
a like analogy will not be found to fail : for 
both species of composition, besides tending 



169 

to produce the common end of pleasure, 
agree in that one point which is of itself suffi- 
cient, and which only is necessary to con- 
stitute a similarity. In both, though truth 
may be deserted, it cannot be deserted where- 
ever it is acknowledged as truth. Unless, 
in fact, we can be brought to forget it alto- 
gether, no violation can be offered to its un- 
alterable nature. So that making due allow- 
ances for the different objects pursued in the 
romantick poem, and in the other species of 
poetical composition, they may be regarded 
merely as draughts of the same object laid 
down, upon different scales, by artists of the 
same school ; in which, though the dimen^ 
sions are unlike, the proportions are similar, 

The right of adopting marvellous im-* 
agery which poets claim appearing thus 
capable of vindication, however licentious it 
may seem and remote from nature ; and being 
chosen by him who engages in the epical 
romance as the ground-work of his compo- 
sitions, it must be evident that with respect 
to the objects which he may imitate, he 
commences with a licence that scarcely knows 
any restriction. But though the space, 
through which he is at liberty to expatiate, 



170 

is not confined to any prescribed way, or 
regular direction, its extent is marked out by 
certain limits : he may prolong his course by 
circumvolution, but if he proceed too far on 
the one side, he must fail from losing that 
illumination which is to direct his course ; 
if he push it too bold on the other, he gets 
within the sphere of that radiance which 
must endanger his Daedalian pinions. His- 
tory opposes a barrier to exclude him from 
appropriating those facts which are com- 
mitted to the preservation of its records; 
and invention opens a region before him, 
the most captivating objects of which are 
but illusive lights which seduce to latent 
dangers. 

As to the invented incidents of his work, 
I have already remarked, and cannot insist 
too much on the point, that though he pos^ 
sesses great liberties of fiction, he does not 
possess an unbounded licence of invention. 
To fix that line of partition between those 
grounds which ought to be considered his 
rightful possessions, and those which are for-* 
bidden to his encroachment, is an undertak- 
ing naturally to be expected from him who 
professes to determine the nature, and to fix 
the bounds of Poetick Licence. 



171 

The rule of Horace possesses much per- 
tinence in this undertaking, but is too gene- 
ral to solve its difficulties • 

Ficta voluptatis causa, sint proxima veris : 
Hec quodcunque volet, poscat sibi fabula credi. 

De Art. Poet. v. 338. 

This precept affords us. some slight assistance 
in estimating the merits of a composition al- 
ready finished ; but offers us none whatever, 
by which our practice may be regulated in 
entering on such an undertaking as a poeti- 
cal romance. To reconcile the marvellous 
with the probable is here recommended by 
Horace, but how this may be effected forms 
the final difficulty ; and has been considered 
so very insurmountable, that it has been pro- 
nounced by a critick of great authority to 
depend on such art as cannot be communi- 
cated by precept. " 11 ne me paroit done 
pas possible d'enseigner Tart de concilier le 
vraisemblable et le merveilleux. Cet art n'est 
qu'a la portee de ceux qui sont nes poetes, et 
grand es poetes. C'est a eux qu'il est reserve 
de faire une alliance du merveilleux et du 
vraisemblable, ou l'un et l'autre ne perdent 
par leur droits. Le talent de faire une telle 
alliance est ce que distingue eminement les 



172 

poetes de la classe de Virgile, des versifica- 
teurs sans invention, et des poetes extrava- 
gans." k 

Were the difficulty as great as the critick 
represents it, research in these inquiries be- 
yond this point would be precluded. After 
disclosing the nature of Poetick Licence in 
the marvellous departments of the art, and 
vindicating the poet's right of employing it, 
it would not be possible to mark out the 
boundaries to which it should be extended, 
from the impracticability of ascertaining the 
precise limits to which fiction might be car- 
ried, without destroying the reader's plea- 
sure by a sense of its improbability. The 
consideration of the difficulty which arises in 
this respect will at least justify the boldness 
of an attempt to conquer it, if it does not 
extenuate the insufficiency betrayed in the 
undertaking. With such a prospect in the 
event of success, I shall venture upon sug- 
gesting an expedient, which I am fond enough 
to believe adequate not only to resolve the 
crux started by Du Bos, but to ascertain the 
full extent of that liberty to which the artist 

t Du Bos. Reflex. Critiq. § 28. 



173 

is permitted to advance under the immunities 
of Poetick Licence. 

The expedient which I conceive adequate 
to the exigency of the poet in this respect 
may be thus laid down. In ascribing any 
thing to the operation of supernatural agen- 
cy, its occurrence, though not capable of 
being accounted for as natural, should not 
be questionable as real, judging of it accord- 
ing to the creed of the poet's characters : 
and though not immediately admissible as 
true, yet it should not be negatived as evi- 
dently false, judging of it according to the 
creed of his readers. But as the reader's 
creed is now in all cases determinable, and 
confined to what we term religion ; and as 
the creed of the poet's characters, if it differs 
from that of the reader's, is generally denomi- 
nated superstition, this rule may be stated 
much more succinctly. In order that any 
thing marvellous admitted into poetry, 
should possess propriety and verisimilitude, 
it is necessary that its occurrence should be 
exactly conformable to the popular super- 
stitions of the times in which the scene of 
the work is laid ; and though not recognised 
as true, yet should not be directly inadmissi- 
ble as false when viewed by the reader's reli-. 



174 

gious notions. And this rule being observed, 
the separate provinces of fancy and reality 
will not only be kept apart, but, according to 
the precept of Horace, fiction will be thus 
brought in the nearest possible degree to 
truth. 

The justness and comprehensiveness of 
this precept will be found to receive no in- 
considerable support on being brought to 
the text of exemplification from the works of 
the most distinguished writers in marvellous 
poetry. To justify its being offered, how- 
ever, as a canon which may be applied to 
solve some points of poetical licence, which 
a difference in practice among these writers 
has left doubtful, it cannot be deemed irrele- 
vant to shew that it possesses every authority 
which can be claimed for it, as being con- 
formable to those general principles which 
have been deduced from the nature and end 
of poetry, and shewn to regulate its various 
compositions. 

1. To assert that every thing which is 
conceived to be true must be possessed of 
verisimilitude, is to repeat circuitously what 
is conveyed in a single term. But Whatever 
is inculcated by any religious belief, or ad- 
mitted by the superstitious credulity of any 



175 

people, those persons who are under its in- 
fluence are by supposition conceived to be- 
lieve true. Whatever preternatural appear- 
ance therefore the poet relates, however 
doubtful may be its occurrence, however 
physically improbable may be its existence, 
provided it is reported on the faith of some 
character in his production, it must possess 
verisimilitude in being conformable to the 
adduced rule. To such characters it must 
preserve every necessary probability, in " not 
being questionable as true." The difference 
between real occurrences and preternatural 
appearances, in a physical sense, may be as 
great as can be conceived ; but this is by no 
means the case when as incidents they are 
embraced by the imagination, or transferred 
to the ideal system of poetry. The human 
mind has often no power to separate among 
its conceptions that part which is the effect 
of delusion from that which is the result of 
reality : it is even generally found to be most 
pertinacious in maintaining the superiouF 
truth of the former. 

But it is in the poet's power to represent 
his characters as deceived by superstitious 
illusion : and as he is required to ascribe 
them not just, but natural feelings, not to 



176 

make them philosophical reasoners, but to 
represent them as human beings actuated by 
human passions, such a mode of delineation 
will impart to his narrative not only great 
nature, but every necessary truth ; as being 
most consonant to the fabulous cast of that 
period in which they are represented to have 
lived. 

These remarks cannot receive a more per- 
fect exemplification than in the following 
passage from Ariosto, which is not less re- 
markable for the propriety of its fiction than 
from the splendour of its imagery. The poet 
represents the ghost of Argalia appearing to 
Ferrau, while he is in search of the helmet 
of the departed knight, which he had pre- 
viously bound himself to cast into a river 
that no monument of victory might remain. 

Con un graii ramo d'albero rimondo, 
Di die avea fatto una pertica lunga, 
Tenta il flume, e ricerca fino al fondo ; 
Ne loco lascia, ove non batta, e pugna. 
Mentre con la maggior stizza del mondo 
Tanto l'indugio suo quivi prolunga; 
Vede di mezzo il fiume un Cavaliero, 
Infino al petto uscir, d'aspetto fierce 

Era, fuor che la testa, tutto armato, 
Ed avea un' elmo nella destra mano? 



177 

Avea'l medesirao elmo, che cercato 

Da Ferrari fu lungamente in vano. 

A Ferrari parlo come adirato, 

E disse: Ah mancator di fe, Mariano ; 

Perche di lasciar l'elino anche t'aggrevi, 

Che render gia gran tempo mi dovevi ? 

Ricordati Pagan quando uccedisti 
D'Angelica il fratel, che son quell'io, 
Dietro all' altre arme tu mi promettesti 
Fra pochi di gittar l'elmo nel rio. 



All' apparir, che fece all' improviso 

DelP acqua l'Ombra, ogni pelo arricciossi, 

E scolorossi al Saracino il viso : 

La voce, ch'era per uscir, fermossi. 

Udendo poi dall' Argalia, ch'ucciso 

Quivi avea gia (che l'Argalia nomossi) 

La rotta fede cosi improverarse ; 

Di scorno, e d'ira dentro, e di fuor arse. 

Cant. I. ott. 25-30. 

The occurrence is represented as hap- 
pening to one who lived in the prejudices of 
an age which disposed him to credit, not 
question the truth of any preternatural ap- 
pearance : and the incident described is of 
a kind which receives no contradiction from 
our religious notions. With infinite judg- 
ment the poet has enlarged upon the causes 
of the appearance of the spectre, and on 
the state of mental agitation into which the 



178 

knight was thrown. The fiction is thus 
brought to the very verge of truth ; as a su- 
perstitious mind actuated by a perturbed con- 
science might have created the phantom with 
which it was affrighted. 

2. As the poet's descriptions are intended 
to affect the reader, and as the reader's creed 
may be very different from that ascribed to 
the characters in the poem, a provision must 
be made against his considering the narrative 
improbable on entering into the feelings of 
the poet's characters, and placing himself in 
the same situation wherein they are described 
to be affected ; for when the sense of any 
improbability in this respect predominates in 
his mind, the effect of the composition must 
be lost on him. And herein lies the neces- 
sity of the rule, that to the operation of spi- 
ritual agency nothing should be ascribed 
which our religious creed would reject as 
evidently false. 1 



' The most striking, and indeed only, instance of a violation 
of this principle in Ariosto, which would offend a modern 
reader, is that fiction wherein the poet represents a Christian 
knight, Afiolfo, as conducted by St. John, the Evangelist, to the 
palace of the Fates. (Orl. Fur. Cant, xxxiv. ott. 87-92.) We 
must ever feel a disposition to question the existence of such 
beings as the Fates of Heathen Mythology, and particularly so 



179 
3. It is scarcely necessary to extend these 
considerations to a third case, that in which 
certain marvellous occurrences are narrated 
by the poet on his own testimony,. as distinct 
from those which he reports on the testi- 
mony of his characters. Where the religious 
creed of the poet's readers, and of his cha- 
racters is the same, great licences may be 
used by him in this respect. He may con- 
struct entire episodes ; and conduct them 
by none but marvellous beings, even where 
such fictions cannot be supposed to come 
under the observation of any human per- 
sonage in the poem ; whence, as was before 
observed, they might acquire probability, on 
the supposition of the spectator's having mis- 
taken some illusion for reality. A remark- 
able instance, though not taken from a poe- 
tical romance, is the interview of Jupiter 



when they are introduced to our notice by such a personage as 
St. John, who, on being barely mentioned, suggests the grounds 
of ill ;; t creed, by which we at once decide on the impossibility of 
their existence. I must here, however, observe that ihis fiction 
must have appeared much less clefective to a reader of Axiosto's 
age, than it does to one of ours ; as well because many of the 
Pagan notions were retained and incorporated in the Italian su- 
perstitions, as I shall have occasion to observe hereafter, and be- 
cause the history of St. John himself was in those times involved 
in much obscurity and mystery. 



180 

and Juno in the fourteenth book of the 
" Iliad/' No direct reason could have sug- 
gested itself to any Grecian reader for im- 
mediately rejecting this fiction as improba- 
ble, as it possessed an exact conformity with 
his religious creed : while the internal veri- 
similitude which it bore in its consistency 
must have offered him some cause to admit 
it at once, without delaying to ascertain whe- 
ther its probability was supported merely by 
the testimony of the poet, or corroborated by 
that of one of his characters. This being the 
case, the pleasure which the narrative was 
calculated to excite by the consistency of 
the fiction, and the marvellousness of the 
imagery, could not have suffered any sensi- 
ble diminution from the circumstance of 
being unaccredited by actual observation. 

But where the superstitious notions, 
ascribed to the poet's characters, differ from 
those admitted in the religious creed pro- 
fessed by his readers ; as, for instance, were 
a poetical romance at the present day to be 
founded on a subject interspersed with Sara- 
cenick mythology ; in this case I cannot 
think any licence would justify the authour 
in maintaining any thing that is not sup- 
ported, at least indirectly, by the testimony 



181 

of some character in the poem. When ficti- 
tious incidents receive no countenance from 
the creed of the reader, in order that they 
should have some title to verisimilitude, 
there should be room for delusion on the 
part of the person who is represented as 
affected by them in the poem. But from 
this circumstance an exception is entered 
against introducing into the poetical ro- 
mance, such marvellous episodes merely 
as are carried on without the known inter- 
vention of some character in the poem. For 
the poet, having once established an evidence 
under one of the personages in his work, and 
brought it in favour of any imaginary oc- 
currence, may thence deduce by inference 
all the circumstances by which he chooses to 
enlarge the fiction, provided they are such 
as might have probably attended the transac- 
tion ; for in this case, adhering to probabi- 
lity, he preserves every necessary verisimili- 
tude. Any marvellous episode in the " Or- 
lando/' the adventure of Ruggiero with 
Alcina, for instance, will illustrate my mean- 
ing ; where the poet having sufficient grounds 
for the outline of the fiction in the supersti- 
tious opinions of the character whom he 
introduces, thence enters with every neces- 



182 

sarj propriety into its more minute details, 
establishing the verisimilitude of each parti- 
cular description on the probability with 
which it arises out of, and is attendant on the 
general transaction. 

When the rule which has been now ex- 
plained is not transgressed, it appears to me, 
on many accounts, that the end of the pro- 
duction will be ansAvered, as the reader will 
be enabled to feel that pleasurable effect 
which it is intended to afford him. For to 
attain this end we do not claim of the poet 
that he should render his descriptions strictly 
probable. All that we require of him is, 
that he should keep the sense of any impro- 
bability in his narrative subordinate to the 
pleasure which it is intended to excite as 
marvellous. By adhering to this rule, the 
sense of improbability being allowed but a 
negative effect, cannot have much, if any, 
tendency to counteract that delight which 
we are disposed to feel in what is otherwise 
interesting in the production ; and may be of 
course wholly overlooked while the imagina- 
tion resigns itself to the more powerful emo- 
tion excited by what is grand and surprising 
in the composition. 

That the most probable supposition, 



183 

which will arise on considering the stale 
of the reader's feelings, is, that all consi- 
derations of the improbability of the fic- 
tions will be overlooked, may be more fully 
established from a consideration of the 
medium through which the composition is 
presented to the mind, and the state of the 
mind which is affected by its perusal. And 
here confining ourselves to the observation, 
that these productions are narrated ; of the 
objects of description in every narrative we 
must have but comparatively faint percep- 
tion, from the circumstance of their being 
conveyed to us through the medium of lan- 
guage ; 

Segnius irritant animos demissa per aurem, 
Quam quae sunt oculis commissa fidelibus, et quas 
Ipse sibi tradit spectator. 

Hor. DeArt. Poet. v. 188. 

In the general improbabilities which might 
be urged against any marvellous transaction 
Avhich is narrated, those must be wholly 
overlooked which our senses would discover, 
if we were not merely readers, but witnesses 
of the imaginary occurrence. So that it may 
be remarked by the way, that the circum- 
stances of being merely auditors and specta- 
tors will render somewhat more proportionate 



184 

the difference placed between the poet's 
readers and his characters : if the former are 
assigned greater credulity, the latter are 
offered less to believe. 

But the reader s power to observe any 
improbabilities which may be discoverable 
in these descriptions is not merely confined 
from the circumstance of their not being sub- 
mitted to the scrutiny of his organs ; it is not 
less confined in the circumstance of his hav- 
ing but an imperfect knowledge of all preter- 
natural beings and their economies, even of 
such as his own creed admits to be real. 
All the probability which reason can attain 
on these subjects must allow of considerable 
limitation ; he cannot therefore acquire that 
habitual facility, which experience gives him, 
of discerning at a glance the truth or impro- 
bability of things which are familiar from 
being definite in their nature, and frequent 
in their occurrence : he will consequently 
find no immediate evidence for rejecting those 
fictions founded on the creed of others which 
it is his interest in being his pleasure to ad- 
mit unquestioned. The only certainty which 
he can reach on these points is that which 
his own creed affords him concerning the 
existence of the beings employed in those 



185 

fictions. If they are of a kind which his 
religious notions lead him to reject, the 
composition fails at once in its intended 
effect, by exciting a stronger sensation to 
predominate over his pleasure. But against 
any danger which may threaten the poet's 
fictions in this respect the adduced rule fur- 
nishes a provision, as it expressly states, 
that " nothing should be introduced in such 
fictions, which would be negatived as false 
by the creed of the reader." And hence, if 
the existence of those beings does not come 
to be questioned, our admitting every thing 
they are supposed to do, will depend upon 
the consistency of the narrative in which 
they are described. 

This however is a statement of the matter, 
which sets it in a point of light the least fa- 
vourable to the cause which I espouse : for 
it may happen that the reader may possess a 
temper of mind somewhat tinctured with the 
enthusiasm of the poet, which, independent 
of the interest he may feel in the production 
before him, will rather incline him to admit 
than to question its fictions. " Many," says 
Mr. Addison, in speaking of the pleasure 
which marvellous productions afford,. " are 
prepossessed with such opinions, as dispose 



186' 

them to believe these particular delusions ; 
at least, we have all heard so many pleasing 
relations in favour of them, that we do not 
care for seeing through the falsehood, and 
willingly give ourselves up to so agreeable 
an imposture." m 

The defence of the Italian poets is thus 
capable of being established, and those fic- 
tions with which they have enriched poetry 
may be maintained to the art, notwithstand- 
ing the endeavours of some modern criticks 
to bring them into disrepute. For thus, with 
all their licentiousness, they are reconcileable 
to those principles which regulate poetical 
compositions, and are adapted to that end 
which is sought in all such productions. 

To one objection, however, they seem to 
be exposed, which I shall proceed to state, 
not so much for the purpose of shewing that 
it is not incapable of being answered, as that 
it leads to the illustration of some other pe- 
culiar traits in the nature of this extraordi- 
nary species of composition. When that 
pleasure, which it is the end of these produc- 
tions to awaken, comes to be felt only in 
remembrance ; during those periods when 

m Spectator, No. 419. 



187 

the poet changes his subject to give it a 
diversity, or those pauses which we are 
obliged to make in the narrative, if for no 
other purpose than to observe the connection 
oftheauthour's subject; at such particular pe- 
riods these fictions being viewed without those 
emotions of surprise and admiration, which 
they excite in the perusal, leave no impres- 
sion upon the mind so strong as that of their 
improbability ; and consequently suspend 
the gratification which should be continued 
unalloyed from the commencement to the 
close of every poetical production. And, be- 
sides this, it happens, that in fictions thus con- 
structed, there seems to be no suitable provi- 
sion made at first to engage them a second 
reading, when that novelty is worn out which 
constitutes no small share of our pleasure, 
and creates no slight proportion of our emo- 
tion when we give the production the first 
perusal. 

This objection, it may be remarked by 
the way, seems to contain in it the seeds of 
every aspersion which has been cast upon 
the marvellous fictions of Ariosto ; as those 
criticks who have ventured to censure that 
poet must have spoken after a reiterated 
perusal of his work, since these are feelings 



188 

which arise on a frequent recurrence to it. 
But I do not mention this point as a state- 
ment of the manner in which the Italians 
have been judged, nor do I insist particu- 
larly on it at present, as containing a proof 
of their having been condemned on an un- 
fair trial. Their defence may be maintained 
independently of this consideration ; for the 
objection affects them only when one half of 
their plan is taken into consideration. As 
the difficulties attending the labour of poeti- 
cal composition must have led them to review 
repeatedly their own imagery, they must 
themselves have observed it in the same 
light with the critick : they must have thus 
seen how it was exposed to censure, and were 
hence probably driven to the expedient of 
devising some mode of obviating these ob- 
jections. And from this circumstance, I 
cannot but think, originated those striking 
peculiarities which distinguish the poetical 
romance from the other species of epical 
composition ; its being allegorical in its sub- 
ject, and episodical in its plan. Such in fact 
appear to be the expedients which a little 
consideration suggested to the Italian poets, 
as affording a remedy for the deficiences im- 
putable to these productions. 



189 

On the episodical structure of fable in 
the poetical romance, I shall have occasion 
to enlarge when I come to treat of the eco- 
nomy of poetical matter. I now particu- 
larly insist upon the allegorical meaning as 
that part of the poet's plan by which he 
aims at securing the end of his art, by pro- 
moting the gratification of his readers ; more 
especially during the perusal of those parts 
of his composition in which the sense of his 
fictions being improbable might predominate 
over the pleasure excited by their marvel- 
lousness. In these it is curious to remark, 
that the truth which the poet finds impracti- 
cable to impart really to his subject, he aims 
at imparting figuratively. Thus leaving the 
mind employed in discovering the latent 
sense of his fictions, and tracing resemblances 
between its true and typical meaning, he 
engages it in such occupation as affords most 
readers no small degree of pleasure. And 
hence by keeping the sense of any improba- 
bility in his fictions out of our view (which 
he the more readily effects by giving them, 
as allegories, that artificial connection with 
truth which keeps some kind of verity al- 
ways before us in the implied meaning,) he 
succeeds in diverting us from observing the 



190 

want of verisimilitude until he breaks upon 
us with a new train of marvellous imagery, 
and then overpowers us again with emotions 
of admiration and surprise. And when the 
sensations thus excited again subside, he 
prepares for us the same task of unravelling 
his allegories, to be once more succeeded by 
an interchange of similar delight and similar 
occupation. 

It is, however, by no means my intention 
to assert that the " Orlando Furioso" is a 
poem which possesses a regularly con- 
structed allegory shadowed under its literal 
meaning. Such a supposition is not borne 
out by fact : for, notwithstanding the labours 
of Valvasori, Ruscelli, Porcacchi, Toscanella, 
and Harrington, who have been at such pains 
to discover a concealed meaning in all his 
fictions, it would require something more 
than complaisance in any thinking reader to 
admit that their labours were not much more 
frequently baffled than successful. 

Indeed the establishment of such notions 
on the uniform consistency of Ariosto's alle- 
gories is not at all necessary to the defence 
of the poet : it is sufficient if this figurative 
meaning is discoverable in those bolder fic- 
tions which are conceived to offer a violence 



191 

to truth and nature. And that this is a true 
remark, and will be found justified on expe- 
riment, we have not only the evidence of the 
poem, as interpreted by the commentators 
already mentioned, but the testimony of the 
poet himself, who, thus far at least, confirms 
the general voice of his interpreters ; as he 
directs his readers n in search of a figurative 
meaning implied under his more marvellous 
inventions. And such parts of his poem are 
those alone in which the reader requires 
something to turn his attention aside from 
the sense of any improbability in the fic- 
tion. 

It must, however, be admitted that the 
case is very different with respect to Spen- 
ser; in the science and continuity of his alle- 
gories he differs very materially from his 
Italian competitor. And his commentator, 
Mr. Upton, has insisted on this point in his 
defence of the probability of the " Fairy 
Queen" with very different success from that 
which has been manifested by all the fanci- 
ful expositors of Ariosto's " Orlando." The 
fact is, and it appears in a letter on the sub- 
ject to Sir W. Raleigh, that he secured to 



» Orl. Fur. Cant. vii. ott. 2. See also Cant. ?iii. ott. 2. 



192 

his poem this quality of being allegorical, 
by having originally intended it should pos- 
sess it. And a letter addressed by Mr. 
Upton to Mr. West, besides the preface al- 
ready mentioned, puts the fact out of dispute 
by an illustration of the allegories, and an 
application of Spenser's poetical characters 
to the principal personages in the court of 
Queen Elizabeth. 

But, as I before observed, the establish- 
ment of this point On the figurative meaning 
of the poetical romance, would not secure 
much to the cause of Ariosto, nor much ad- 
vance the merit of Spenser ; as it assigns the 
works of both poets no other praise than that 
of being good allegorical poems. For it 
must be observed that under these circum- 
stances their place of eminence is appa- 
rently, not really, elevated. It is advanced 
in the same manner as that of an object, 
which when set beside others of a size more 
diminutive is, seemingly, not actually am- 
plified. As allegorical poems they may be 
entitled to all the merits due to works of 
their kind; but if this is the view under 
which the poetical romance is to be repre- 
sented, and these are the terms on which its 
perfections are to be ascertained, it certainly 



193 

becomes reduced from these circumstances, 
and in no inconsiderable degree, in the scale 
of that poetry which ranks as epical. 

Nor am I led to this conclusion by an 
attachment to system, from having any desire 
to exclude from the composition of the poe- 
tical romance, a regularly constructed alle- 
gory, on account of its being incompatible 
with what I have already declared to be 
essential to such productions in a state of 
abstract perfection. Such a plan, when pro- 
secuted to a greater extent than what has 
been judiciously adopted by Ariosto, cannot 
fail to defeat its own intent, as it must tend 
to weary us by perplexing our attentions 
with a diversity of interests, and in an un- 
remitted succession. There are few, if any, 
readers of Spenser, who will not admit that 
the interest which they take in the " Fairy 
Queen" is alloyed, and in no inconsiderable 
degree, by the spirit of " moralizing" which 
is prosecuted through the whole of that 
poem. So niuch is admitted by one whom 
I look upon as the warmest of his admirers, 
and the ablest of his advocates. " As an 
allegorical poem/' says the venerable Bishop 
Hurd, if the method of the Fairy Queen is 
governed by the justness of the moral : as a 

o 



394 

narrative poem, it is conducted on the ideas 
and usages of chivalry. In either view, if taken 
by itself, the plan is defensible. But from 
the union of the two designs there arises a 
perplexity and confusion which is the proper, 
and only considerable, defect of this extra- 
ordinary poem/' 

And this difference in the conduct of the 
Italian and the English romance determines 
me to decide, without any hesitation, in fa- 
vour of the former, as the more perfect mo- 
del of the epos of marvellous poetry. Not 
that I admit either the genius or the judg- 
ment of Spenser was inferiour to that of 
Ariosto ; or that I believe he was seduced 
from the right path, which was so success- 
fully trodden by his illustrious predecessor, 
by any vain ambition to avoid his supposed 
errours, or to strike out imaginary beauties. 
This inferiority, on the part of our country- 
man, is to be attributed to the difference of 
the times in which both poets lived ; a differ- 
ence that operated as much to favour the 
end of Ariosto, as it did to oppose the object 
of Spenser. The manners of chivalry and 
its attendants, the fictions of romance, fur- 

On Chivalry and Romance. Let. viii. 



195 

nished the subjects of their respective works, 
and gave them propriety of truth. But it 
was the g-ood fortune of Ariosto to have 
lived at a period, when they were as much 
objects of overweening partiality, as it was 
the fate of Spenser to have lived in an age 
when they were objects of unmerited re- 
proach. Each found it his interest to pay a 
respect to the prejudices of his times : and 
while Ariosto had but to accommodate him- 
self to the existing state of opinion, Spenser 
had to struggle against it, in treating a sub- 
ject of the same description and character. 
How his choice of the romance as an epical 
subject, was notwithstanding judicious, as 
conformable to the popular prejudices in the 
reign of Elizabeth, may be collected, with- 
out any labour of deduction, from those 
letters on chivalry and romance so often 
quoted. 

Thus it happens, by assigning its proper 
place and level to what is real and what is 
allegorical in the epick romance, by consi- 
dering neither part perfect in itself, but the 
.latter merely auxiliary to the former, that the 
defence of the Italian poets is easily made 
out. And thus we find it explained, how 
this part of fanciful poetry, though it has 



196 

met with many strenuous opponents, has 
found no adequate defenders. Both parties, 
as well those who opposed as those who sup- 
ported it, seem not to have taken in ils plan 
at one comprehensive view, but to have re- 
garded it with a divided consideration : they 
have been led to regard it not as a whole 
composed of one principal with a subordi- 
nate part, but as a whole in which the parts 
were equally prominent Thus regarding it 
as a species of composition as much typical 
as literal, they have been led to expect, that, 
in both forms, it should be equally perfect : 
that its more obvious sense should possess 
continued verisimilitude, and its more latent 
meaning be continued allegory. It cannot 
then appear extraordinary that under such a 
consideration, in which the object of these 
compositions is so completely misconceived, 
they should have exhibited so much to jus- 
tify the censure of their opponents : and 
that their apologists, taking the matter on the 
same grounds, should have laboured so in- 
effectually in their vindication. 

But if there are any of Ariosto's fictions 
which appear defective in verisimilitude, and 
at the same time inobvious in allegorical sig- 
nification, we must attribute the circumstance 



197 

not so much to the poet, as to the age in 
which he flourished. He was only required 
to impart that verisimilitude to his fictions 
which was suited to the existing state of po- 
pular opinion in his time. That censure 
which arraigns him for not having done 
more, might be equally employed to con- 
demn Homer for not having devised a train 
of my thological imagery correspondent with 
our religious notions at the present day. We 
must in fact admit the poetical systems of 
both poets subject to the popular supersti- 
tions of the age in which they wrote : and 
the credulity of that in which Ariosto lived 
would have admitted certain fictions as pos- 
sessing every necessary verisimilitude which 
we now reject as improbable and extrava- 
gant. 

This reasoning appears perfectly borne 
out by observing the state of opinion, not 
only when the " Orlando Furioso" was com- 
posed, but that under which every poetical 
romance, which has risen into popular esti- 
mation, appears to have been produced. As 
proofs that the enchantments of Spenser and 
Shakespeare were received with some sin- 
cerity, and admitted to possess some credi- 
bility, many parallel examples might be 



198 

produced besides the trial and conviction of 
the witches of Warbois. The aera of Ariosto 
cannot be considered more enlightened than 
that in which Bacon lived and wrote : nor 
can we conceive what light could have arisen 
to dissipate the credulity of Ariosto's age, 
when but half a century before him Dante 
was believed to have descended to the infer- 
nal regions, and to have witnessed all those 
marvellous occurrences which he has detailed 
in his " Divina Comedia." 

I cannot, however, bring myself to be- 
lieve that the state of opinion at present, 
though less calculated to favour the effect 
of marvellous fictions than it has been at the 
time when this species of poetry was most 
successfully cultivated, has tended to weaken 
the verisimilitude of those fictions, to dimi- 
nish their intrinsick beauty, or destroy the 
pleasure which the works even of Ariosto or 
Spenser were originally intended to afford. 
In our more collected moments, during the 
perusal of these marvellous inventions, when 
occupied rather in reasoning on their defects, 
than in feeling their beauties, we are so far 
disengaged from emotion as to consider 
their want of truth and probability, we are 
enabled to take into account the different 



199 

circumstances under which the poem is now 
read, and those under which it was originally 
written. And though the allowances which 
are thus made may not raise the pleasure 
which a modern reader takes in such fictions 
as those of Homer, to that degree which 
was experienced by the Grecian who pro- 
fessed Homer's religion, it does not follow 
that a similar disparity exists in the pleasure 
which any one now takes in the imagery of 
the " Orlando Furioso," and that expe- 
rienced by the first readers of Ariosto. Set- 
ting aside the consideration that the cotem- 
poraries of Ariosto could not have had that 
unreserved belief in the fictions of the " Or- 
lando," which those of Homer had in the 
" Iliad," the mythological notions of the 
latter are wholly irreconcileable with the 
truth of our present religion, while the fic- 
tions of the former possess at least the verisi- 
militude of some superstitions not wholly 
exploded among us, which if we do not 
implicitly believe, we do not absolutely re- 
ject. From these circumstances it is very 
allowable to conclude that the pleasure, 
which Ariosto's work at first afforded, both 
has remained, and is likely to continue at 
nearly its original level. 



200 

Proceeding from this remark, I shall now 
beg leave to enter my protest against an 
opinion which has been sometime fashion- 
able, and which, if admitted, would straiten 
in no slight degree the extent of Poetick 
Licence ; — " That the success of these fic- 
tions will not be great, when they have no 
longer any footing in popular belief; — and 
that no modern poet ought to revive those 
fairy tales in an epick poem." p Notwith- 
standing the authoritativeness of this asser- 
tion, I cannot bring myself to believe that 
fanciful imagery can have suffered much 
from the circumstance of our being more 
enlightened than our ancestors. For I find 
it difficult to reconcile this critical dogma 
with that general interest which the old 
poetical romances continue to excite on ac- 
count of this very antiquated imagery. And 
if such imagery is found to delight us in a 
poem long written, I know of no reason why 
it should not in one which is recently given 
to publicity. . 

It is true that we should censure as un- 
natural in a modern poet many things which 

P Hurd on Chiv. and Rom. Let. x. 



201 

we should pardon, though improbable in 
Ariosto, on the grounds of those allowances 
which are to be made for the credulity of 
his age : but it is not less true, that the mo- 
dern poet by constructing his fictions with 
more art, and greater verisimilitude, may 
stand in need of no such indulgences. How 
far this is practicable has been already 
pointed out in those rules which have been 
laid down for ascertaining the justness, and 
directing the constitution of poetical fic- 
tions : and let it be remembered, that to 
these rules those very fictions are excep- 
tions, in which Ariosto stands in need of 
palliation. 

When the poet has secured these points, 
he cannot have much to fear from the scep- 
ticism or incredulity of his readers. Among 
readers of this compleclion as there are 
some of whom he can have as little hopes 
as ambition of making proselytes to his 
fanciful creed ; there are others who will 
find that what his descriptions want in 
point of truth, is more than compensated 
in point of art ; a quality that almost 
equally secures that delight which is the 
ultimate end of poetical composition. And 



202 

the more incredulous any reader is found, 
the more it must be admitted will his de- 
light be raised at observing those fictions 
which his reason leads him to reject as 
false, represented with all the consistency 
of realities. 



203 



CHAP. II. 

OF THE POETICAL EPOS. 

We have already observed those endeavours 
which have been employed to exclude the 
poetical romance from holding any place 
among the legitimate compositions of poetry, 
on account of its fictions offering so great a 
violence to nature and reality. It cannot 
therefore appear strange that the liberty of 
employing a system of spiritual agents and 
supernatural imagery, to which criticism gives 
the name of machinery, should have been 
likewise opposed in the poetical epos : nor 
will objections to its introduction appear to 
the philosophical thinkers of the present 
day to be devoid of the strongest support from 
nature and reason. When this mode of reason- 
ing in criticism first became fashionable, has 
been incidentally determined by the authour 
of " Letters on Chivalry," in tracing the de- 
clining popularity of the Gothick fictions 
and Italian poetry in England, in the sink- 
ing credit of which it appears to have been 
considerably involved. The period of so 



204 

regretted a revolution in our taste has been 
fixed at the time of the restoration ; and the 
origin of those sentiments, which particularly 
affected poetical machinery ascribed to Sir 
W. Davenant and Mr. Hobbes. q The au- 
thority of these opinions had however no 
considerable standing, and with the excep- 
tion of a few proselytes, among whom Sir W. 
Temple occurs, they continue to lose ground 
every day ; among the last persons that I 
now remember, who appear to avow them 
openly, is M. de Voltaire : they appear to 
have expired under the feeble support of 
Lord Kaimes. 

On considering the different powers of 
reasoning by which these opinions on the 
propriety of machinery in an epick poem 
have been maintained, and those with which 
they have been combated, the advantage 
now appears considerably on the side of the 
former. Of this I could offer a complete 
evidence, in producing the defence of the 
necessity of celestial intervention in the epo- 
pee given by Dr. Hurd. The length of the 
passage unfitting it for transcription, I shall 
beg leave to refer the reader to it, as it 

■ *TL , ; - . ■ ,, ■ , .... , ^ | -■ w 

* Hukd on Chiv. and Rom. Let. ix. 






205 

contains a refutation of the objections of two 
very popular advocates on the opposite side 
of the question/ 

Without entering into the merits of the 
arguments of a controversy, which, as I am 
of opinion, has been decided much in favour 
of the affirmative side of the question, I 
am sufficiently attached to those principles 
which I have employed some time in illus- 
trating, to believe, that by their assistance 
the matter may be put if not more appo- 
sitely, yet more suitably to the purpose of 
these inquiries : in fact, that so captivating 
an appendage of poetry as its machinery, 
may be maintained to the art without assign- 
ing any unreasonable latitude to Poetical 
Licence. 

The determination of the present question 
cannot be directly deducible from that rule, 
which has been given for ascertaining the 
propriety, and marking out the extent of 
marvellous fictions ; for that rule assumes, as 
granted, the very points which it would be 
now my object to establish on the more 
solid basis of proof. We must therefore 
look a little higher for that principle which 

r Hurd's Discourse on Poet. Imit. 



206 

leads to the solution of the difficulty before 
us ; and this appears to be immediately sug- 
gested in the end ascribed to all poetical pro- 
ductions, with the consideration of which 
these inquiries commenced, and from which 
the rule alluded to is immediately deducible. 
However the rule is not without its use in 
determining the question before us, as will be 
made apparent in the course of discussing the 
point, which may be briefly stated as follows. 
The end which every poet, and more 
particularly those of the epick class, pur- 
poses in his compositions, is that of pro- 
curing his readers the greatest degree, and 
highest kind of gratification which is suit- 
able to the nature, and attainable in the 
execution of that work which he under- 
takes to detail. An appeal lies to the feel- 
ings of readers of every description, as 
evincing that marvellous imagery has some 
strong claims to be thought capable of con- 
tributing to this end. But more than this, 
if the emotions of taste which, in promoting 
this end, it is capable of exciting are not only 
of a higher degree and more exalted kind 
than any thing which may be attained in the 
epopee without its assistance ; but if there is 
nothing in the nature of these emotions cal- 






207 

culated to render it incompatible with com- 
positions of this kind, we may from these 
two points fairly conclude that it is neces- 
sary to the art, in being necessary to the 
end purposed in its composition ; for with- 
out its aid the epick poetry must fall several 
degrees short of that perfection to be at- 
tained by its adoption. 

That, in the first place, marvellous im- 
agery is productive of a very great degree and 
high kind of gratification seems not to be 
disputed by those who object to its introduc- 
tion in the epopee, on account only of its 
offering too great a violence to nature and 
probability. By readers of a less philoso- 
phical turn, this assumption will be admitted 
on the unquestionable evidence of personal 
experience. Nor can it be reasonably de- 
nied by those who consider it, without any 
view to the purer epos, as it occurs in sacred 
poetry, or even in the epick romance. But 
that it is capable of exciting emotions of 
a more sublime kind than what are at- 
tainable by the merely natural imagery of the 
poem, must be evident from the celestial 
nature and illimitable powers of those be- 
ings which it has a means of introducing 
into its action. Before intelligences of this 



208 

kind, all human agents and operations must 
shrink away when brought into a compari- 
son ; they are such as can scarcely be con- 
templated, even in description, without sen- 
timents of such awe, if not of such terrour, 
as render them sublime to the most irresist- 
able degree. 

That, in the second place, there is no- 
thing in the nature either of marvellous im- 
agery, or of epical composition, which can 
render the one unsuitable to the other, is 
surely as admissible. An observance of 
matter of fact has never been expected in 
the former; such a qualification, if it were 
compatible with poetical imitation, would 
not be counterbalanced by its inconvenience 
to poetical embellishment. Of reality the 
poet is required to take no firmer hold than 
what he grasps in verisimilitude. But if he 
attends to the rule given for the conduct of 
the marvellous narrations of poetry, he may 
furnish himself with machinery which pos- 
sesses the strictest verisimilitude. For a mono- 
those celestial agents which he may employ 
in forwarding the action, and heightening 
the dignity of his poem, if he follows that 
religious ritual which is admitted by the 
creed of his readers, and is natural to the 






20J 

characters in his composition he cannot in- 
troduce any beings whose existence and ope- 
rations will not have the greatest probability: 
to admit their verisimilitude, is consequently 
on the part of his readers a matter of faith, 
not merely a matter of opinion. And this 
being etsablished, the hypothesis may con- 
sequently be assumed as proved, that ma- 
chinery, from being calculated to excite 
pleasure without being repugnant to poetical 
verisimilitude, is necessary to the production 
of that end which is purposed in epical com- 
position. 

The adoption of machinery in the epos 
appearing thus founded on reason, and being 
justified by the practice of those poets who 
have carried the art nearest to ideal perfec- 
tion, two points in the use of it require a par- 
ticular investigation, as marking out the ex- 
tent of poetical licence. 

1. How far the poet is restricted in the 
choice of particular agency to embellish and 
dignify his subject? 

2. Under what restrictions may he be 
laid as to the time of employing its interven- 
tion in the epical action ? 

On these points we seem to require some 
fixed standard, as a contrariety of practice, 



210 

into which an ill -directed imitation of 
the antients has led some modern poets, 
has left it somewhat doubtful, in the 
plain track which originally lay unper- 
plexed before them, how they ought to 
act, and how far they are licenced in pro- 
ceeding. 

1. With respect to the choice of particu- 
lar agents to construct the machinery of an 
epick poem, the authour of such a produc- 
tion appears necessitated to adopt those in 
favour of whose existence his religious creed 
gives an explicit evidence ; and of whose na- 
ture and operations his religious ritual gives 
an express account. For the object of ma- 
chinery being that of augmenting the dig- 
nity and importance of the subject to the 
highest attainable degree which is found con- 
sistent with verisimilitude, those intelligences, 
from the sacredness of their character, and 
unquestionableness of their existence, must 
unite the greatest possible truth with the 
most awful majesty. And consequently the 
subject in which, to their exclusion, beings are 
introduced of a subordinate nature, must be 
at least one degree remote from abstract 
perfection, and would be capable of still 
farther amplification by admitting those of 



211 

a more exalted rank and certain existence to 
take a part in its action. 

Under this principle a positive exception 
is entered against conducting the machinery 
of an epick poem by means of Pagan divini- 
ties, or allegorical personages : though the 
former is recommended by the opinion of 
an eminent French critick,' and the latter 
by the practice of a no less eminent poet of 
the same nation. In thus opposing the au- 
thority of the Abbe Du Bos, and the practice 
of M. de Voltaire, I shall fortify my opinion 
of the practice in question being carried be- 
yond the limits of poetical licence, by the 
authority of Tasso, who was as superiour a 
critick to the one, as he was decidedly a finer 
poet than the other. Having deduced the 
requisiteness of machinery in the epopee, from 
the necessity of giving to such compositions 
all the delight which the marvellous is found 
to excite, against the propriety of employing 
heathen machinery to this purpose he de- 
duces the following conclusion, which I look 
upon to be of itself unanswerable: — Non po- 



• Do Bos. Reflex. Critiq. § 25. 28. M. Boileau has also 
been a most zealous advocate of Pagan machinery. L'Art. 
Poet. C. III. 



212 

tendo questi miracoli essere opperati da virtu 
naturale, e necessario che alia virtu sopran- 
naturale ci rivolgiamo, e rivolgandoci alle 
deita de' Gentili, subito cessa il verisimile, 
perche non pu6 esser verisimile agli uomini 
nostri quello, che e da lor ten u to non solo 
falso ma impossible/ 

It is scarcely necessary to demonstrate any 
farther the impropriety of Pagan machinery 
in a formal selection of passages to prove it 
as devoid of grace in the execution, as it is 
incompatible with art in theory. The striking 
deformities of such a system will be more 
clearly evinced by a general exemplification 
from the " Lusiad" of Camoens ; in the con- 
duct of which poem so gross a violation of 
the principles of composition is betrayed, 
that it has become very problematical, in the 
opinion of many critieks, whether it ought 
not to be wholly expunged from the list of 
epical productions. 

The first book of this poem opens with 
a council of the Pagan deities," where Jupi- 
ter foretels the event of the expedition un- 
dertaken by Vasco de Gama; the success of 
which appears to have an enemy in Bacchus, 

« Dell" Art. Poet. Discors. I. * Cant. I. eft. 20-36. 



213 

and an advocate in Venus. In pursuance of 
the sentiments thus declared, the former deity 
raises every obstacle in his power to the suc- 
cess of the Lusians : on their arrival at 
Mozambique he excites the regent against 
them, and prevails on him to concert plots 
and form ambushes for their destruction:* 
with the assistance of Neptune, and the 
deities of the sea, he raises a tempest to 
destroy their fleet, after their departure 
from Melinda : w frustrated in his attempts in 
this quarter he exerts all his powers to excite 
opposition among the inhabitants of Calicut,* 
and with the aid of the infernal daemons in- 
flames the Moors with hatred to the adven- 
turers. On the other hand Venus is equally 
active in thwarting his projects : she prevails 
on the nymphs of the sea to assist her in pre- 
serving her favourites from the snares that 
encompassed them at Mombaze : y she in- 
tercedes with Jupiter in their behalf, who 
permits Mercury to appear in a dream to 
Gama, to warn him of the intended treachery, 
and point out a friendly harbour:' with the 



v Cant. I. est. 73-82. w Cant. III. est. 6. 1. 5-38. 

* Cant. VIII. est. 47-51. y Cant. II. est. 18. 1. 5-24. 

* Cant. II. est. 33-64. " 



214 

aid of her nymphs she stills the tempest which 
had been raised by Bacchus on their voyage 
from Melinda, 3 brings Vasco through all his 
difficulties at Calicut, b and finally conducts 
him in triumph to her own retreat in the 
Island of Love. The goddess of the sea 
here meets Gama, and commits the dominion 
of her empire to him: d the achievements and 
settlement of the Portuguese in the east are 
foretold at one of her feasts, c and the poem 
closes with her leading him to the summit of 
a mountain, explaining the system of the 
universe, and describing the several divisions 
of the globe/ 

So far the machinery of the poem, though 
improper from its incongruity with the reli- 
gion of the adventurers, is consistent in it- 
self. But in addition to the fundamental 
errour of choosing a system of preternatural 
agency thus exceptionable, the poet has 
fallen into a still greater impropriety, in 
confounding this system with that which was 
inculcated by the creed of his heroes. One 
of the great objects of the voyage thus fa- 



• Cant. VI. est. 85-92. b Cant. VIII. est. 64. 
c Cant. IX. est. 18 & 4Q-53. d Cant. IX. est. 85. 

• Cant. X. est. 10-74. f Cant.X. est. 7~-l43. 1.3. 



213 

Toured by Jupiter, and furthered by the 
assistance of Venus, is represented to be the 
propagation of the Gospel. 6 Gama, and his 
followers, are true and pious Christians : at 
the commencement of the voyage they are 
described as addressing their prayers to the 
Almighty, imploring his assistance in their 
undertaking, and joining in the rites and 
ceremonies of the Christian worship." Amid 
their distress in the dreadful tempest off Me- 
linda, Gama again addresses the Supreme 
Being, seeking his aid who led his chosen 
race in safety through the Red Sea, and pre- 
served his servant Paul from shipwreck. 1 
It is to be observed, that in answer to these 
supplications Venus almost immediately ap- 
pears." Even the personages of the heathen 
agency are at times made to refer to the 
characters and customs of both the Christian 
and Mahometan worship. Jupiter and Bac- 
chus often mention the Mahometans, their 
prophet, and their Koran : ' and Thetis the 

k See particularly Camoens' Apostrophe to the Europeans. 
Cant. VII. est. 14 & 15. and Cant. X. est. lig. 

h Cant. IV. est. 86 & 87. 

i Cant. VI. est. 81 & 82. k Cant. VI. est. 85. 

1 Jupiter, in his speech to Venus, Canto II, alludes to the sub- 
jection of " the stern-browed Turk." 
Os Turcos bellacissimos, e duros. 



216 

goddess of the sea, in describing the country 
of the east to Gama, introduces the adven- 



And again, 

Do Mouro alii verao, que a luz extrema 
Do falso Mafamede ao ceo blasphema. 

Est. 50. 

There shall the Moors, blaspheming, sink in death, 
And curse their prophet with their parting breath. 

Mickle. 

We even find Bacchus assuming the appearance of a Christian 
priest, in order to deceive the Lusians. 

Mas aquelle que sempre, &c. 
Estava em huma casa da Cidade 
Com rosto humano, e habito fingido, 
Monstrando-se Christiao, e fabrieava 
Hum altar sumptuoso que adorava. 

Alii tinha em retrato afBgurada 
Do alto e Sancto Espirito a pentura : 
A Candida Pombinha debuxada 
Sobre a unica Phenix Virgem pura. 
A companhia santa esta pintada 
Das doze, tad torvados na figura, 
Como os que, so das linguas que cahirara 
De fogo, varias linguas referiram. 

Cant. II. est 10 & 11. 

But he, whose, &c. 

Now in the town his guileful rage employed, 

A Christian priest he seemed ; a sumptuous shrine 

He rear'd, and tended with the rites divine ; 

O'er the fair altar waved the cross on high 

Upheld by angels leaning from the sky, 

Descending o'er the virgin's sacred head 

So white, so pure, the Holy Spirit spread 



5217 

tures and death of St. Thomas, in his mission 
among its natives. m She particularizes the 
preaching of the Gospel, and the fixing of 
the cross in India." 

It is not to be supposed that faults so 
conspicuous should have escaped condemna- 
tion. They have in fact experienced all the 
severity of criticism, and seem, until lately, 
when they found an advocate in the inge- 
nious and elegant Mr. Mickle, to have 
sunk under the weight of universal censure. 
As the popularity of this apologist has thrown 
a temporary veil over these irregularities, and 
as the inquiry may lead to an elucidation of 
the general maxims laid down on this sub- 
ject, it may not be considered remote from 
our purpose to examine his defence : though 
I think he has exhibited less judgment in the 
grounds he has chosen to extenuate his au- 
thour's errours, than he has displayed taste 
in bringing to light his various beauties. 

The substance of his defence of Camoens' 



The dove-like pictured wings so pure, so white. 
And hovering o'er the chosen twelve, alight 
The tongues of hallowed fire. 

Mickle, 

m Cant. X. est. 108. &5-II9. 

n See Cant. X. est. 119. & est. 140. 



218 

pagan machinery may be reduced to the 
three following heads: — That it is allegori- 
cal; that the introduction of pagan deities 
has been general ; and that some of the su- 
pernatural characters in " The Lusiad" were 
believed to exist by the popular credulity 
of the sixteenth century. 

In his endeavours to maintain the first 
point, and prove the allegorical significance 
of the several characters in the machinery, 
the apologist seems to have laboured with 
little effect. The latent meaning into which 
he wishes to explain away some of these 
agents, even were it admitted, would not 
substanstiate his assertion of their being alle- 
gorical. Thus, when he describes the Jupiter 
of " The Lusiads," as " The Lord of Fate ;" 
when he makes Bacchus " the evil daemon 
or genius of Mohammedism, who was wor- 
shipped in the east," and Mercury " the 
messenger of heaven," he still retains to 
these beings a personal existence, and con- 
verts their nature merely by endowing them 
with characters and attributes equally as 
substantial as those for which he has ex- 
changed them. Those fictions only can be 
called allegorical which comprehend under 
their open and typified meaning, things essen- 



219 

tially different in their nature ; as for instance, 
when they represent abstract ideas b} r actual, 
agents. Thus the actions of Talus, in the 
" Fairy Queen," are figurative of the general 
idea of Justice; in like manner the depar- 
ture of the people of Israel from Egypt, the 
subsequent protection granted them by the 
Deity, and his final desertion of them, is 
shadowed under the image of a vine, and the 
description forms a perfect allegory. But 
this is not the case where one deity is sub- 
stituted for another. Allegory, as far at least 
as it is employed in poetical purposes, only 
aims at giving an apparent existence to what 
possesses no existence in reality ; but does 
not extend to the implied representation of 
one being by another, whose existence is on 
the same footing, in respect to its certainty. 
In this view, therefore, the censure that has 
fallen on these supernatural agents in " The 
Lusiads" has not been removed by the ex- 
planation of the apologist: were his attempt 
established, he would only do away the im- 
putation of the poet's having introduced 
such agents as were contradictory to the 
opinions of his age, by converting them into 
existences equally actual, and equally unac- 
credited by the same belief. 



220 

But were we even not to insist ori»this 
point, we still could not acquiesce in his 
having established a continued allegory. Be- 
yond one or two instances there is not a sha- 
dow of resemblance between the characters 
as described by the poet, and those quali- 
ties which they are asserted by the apologist 
to represent : and even in these instances the 
resemblance strikes only at a distance, and 
on a general view, but fades on a close in- 
spection. We might be brought to admit 
the general resemblance between the charac- 
ter of Venus and the quality of heavenly 
love. But how can we reconcile with such 
a quality the minute details of her person 
and actions, or the employments of herself 
and her nymphs, which are directly contra- 
dictory to the character of celestial love, and 
which are so accurately distinguished by the 
poet. These circumstantial descriptions are 
not only repugnant to this general character, 
but, by their exact coincidence with the pa- 



As for instance, when the birth of Venus is particularized 
as proceeding from the ocean. See Cant. II. est. 19, and 
Cant. IX. est. . The entire episode in this last mentioned 
Canto, which describes her meeting with Cupid, is utterly re- 
pugnant to the supposition . of her representing such a cha- 
racter. 






221 

gan representations of the same personage, 
would still continue, though allowed their 
figurative meaning, to create a discordant 
mixture of religious belief. For as they prove 
the identity of the Venus of the Portuguese 
poet with the Venus of The Iliad and iEneid, 
they would also reduce to the same identity 
their allegorical signification. The Venus of 
both ages would in this manner be brought 
to represent heavenly love : and thus the 
celestial interference believed by pagan igno- 
rance would be confounded with the super- 
intending Providence inculcated by divine 
truth. 

But this attempt of the apologist to re- 
duce the actual agency of the superiour 
beings in " The Lusiads" to the unsubstan- 
tial ministration of abstract idea, is open to 
a still stronger objection. Should he have 
established his object, he would only have re- 
moved one blemish from his authour's per-* 
formance, by substituting in its place ano- 
ther equally liable to censure. For if there is 
allowed any conclusiveness in the principles 
that have been shewn to regulate the intro- 
duction of marvellous imagery into poetry, 
allegorical and pagan intervention lie under 
the same interdict from entering into its 



222 

composition, as being equally unaccredited 
by existing opinion, and of course equally 
subversive of verisimilitude. We are indeed 
less inclined to acquiesce in such conclusions 
when we find the same sweeping principle, 
that would reduce the deities of Camoens 
to allegorical immateriality, might be ap- 
plied to level the consistent system of Ho- 
mer's machinery to the same degraded rank. 
In entering my protest against such an hu- 
miliation of this divine poet's imagery, I do 
not mean to insist on the external evidence 
that leads me to imagine he had an equal 
belief in the existence of those beings whose 
worship he professed, though perhaps he had 
not an equal reverence for them, as Milton 
or any succeeding poet had for that system 
of theology which he transferred from his 
creed to his poetical delineations. I confine 
myself merely to the consideration of the ge- 
neral principles which regulate epick poetry, 
and which, I think, explicitly decide against 
the employment of allegorical machinery in 
such composition, as tending to destroy at 
once its leading and characteristick qualities, 
its verisimilitude, its dignity, and its interest. 
For we have already seen that truth is neces- 
sary to secure the importance of an epick 



223 

subject; but the ascribing an evident and 
important effect to the agency of an ineffi- 
cient cause must violate all appearance 
of truth. The perfection of the epopee 
equally consists in the elevation of its cha- 
racters, and the dignity of its descriptions : 
but the establishment of a continued allegory 
degrades both into insignificance : under 
such a process, all the awful majesty that 
surrounds Omnipotence, all the striking gran- 
deur that attends the display of its power, 
evaporates into " aery nothing/' We are 
presented but with the unsubstantial rack of 
the object which excited our terrour or our 
admiration, while our awe subsides as the 
ministering spirit vanishes which " rode in 
and directed the storm/' Nor is the interest 
which we feel for many of the higher cha- 
racters in the poem, and which forms no 
insignificant, although not a principal, share 
of our gratification in its perusal, less over- 
thrown by such a supposition. We can 
sympathise but little in the watchful anxiety 
of Minerva for her favourites, in the mater- 
nal solicitude of Venus, or in the solitary 
fidelity of Abdiel, when we consider such 
beings as nonentities, and equally incapable 
of feeling and of sufferance. 



224 

It is true that allegory, as has been shewn, 
holds a distinguished place in the romantick 
poem, and adds much to the propriety and 
effect, of its composition. But it is the pe- 
culiar nature of this species of poetry, that 
justifies its introduction. The romance re- 
quires no strict foundation in truth, and 
therefore allegory does not violate its prin- 
ciples : its economy is chiefly episodical, and 
consequently there are many component parts 
of its structure where allegory may be admit- 
ted without interfering with its general and 
important action : and its chief object being 
to excite the emotions of surprise and admi- 
ration, it finds in allegory a powerful assistant 
in producing this effect, from the novelty 
and variety which is thus added to its inci- 
dents, and the intrigue and interchange thus 
created in its plot. From the difference thus 
displayed between the appropriate charac- 
ters of the romantick and poetical epos arises 
the different propriety that attends allegori- 
cal intervention in either: from the nature 
of the former it becomes an essential appen- 
dage to its composition, while it is rejected, 
unless introduced in a very subordinate rank, 
by the principles of the latter. 

In the proofs of that assertion which con- 



225 

stitutes the second point of his defence the 
critick appears equally unsuccessful. It is 
his object here to shew, that the introduc- 
tion of Pagan imagery into modern action 
has been in general use : he particularly 
specifies Milton as following this practice, 
and alludes to some passages in the " Para- 
dise Lost," as confirming his assertion ; and 
he from thence maintains that Camoens had 
an equal liberty of appropriating this species 
of agency. But the use to which Milton and 
Camoens applied the Pagan imagery is essen- 
tially different. Milton, not only has his 
proper machinery conducted by intelligences 
of a totally different order, but never intro- 
duces these deities, as agents, in his poem : p 
he merely refers to the account given of 
them by some antecedent poet, and cites 
them only in a comparison or an illustra- 
tion. Thus he likens Eve to 

a Wood-Nymph light, 

Oread or Dryad, or of Delia's train. 

p 'Tis true that he sums up 

The Ionian gods, of Javan's issue held 

Gods; 
in the number of the fallen angels. But his conduct, as will be 
shewn, was perfectly consistent with universal belief. See p. 238. 

Q 



226 

And to 

Pales, or — — Pomona, when she fled, 
Vertumnus, or to Ceres in her prime, 
Yet virgin of Proserpina from Jove. 

P. L. 

And the garden of Eden, he compares with 

That fair field 

Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers, 

Herself a fairer flow'r, by gloomy Dis 

Was gather'd, which cost Ceres all that pain 

To seek her thro' the world, 

IV. v. 268. 

In these passages there is evidently no at- 
tempt to introduce these mythological beings 
as agents : they contain allusions merely to 
well-known fables. In fact it is Milton's 
constant custom to qualify the reference to 
such beings, by distinctly specifying their 
feigned origin : thus 

Satan 

Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 
As whom the fables name of monstrous size 
Titanian, or Earth-born, that warr'd on Jove, 

Briareos, orTyphon. 

I. v. 196. 

but Eve 

TJndeck'd save with herself, more lovely fair 
Than Wood-nymph, or the fairest goddess feyn'd\ 
Of three that in mount Ida naked strove. 

V. v. 379. 
However some tradition they dispers'd 
Among the heathen of their purchase got, 






227 

And fabled how the Serpent, whom they call'd 
Ophion with Eurynorae, the wide 
Encroaching Eve, perhaps, had first the rule 
Of high Olympus, thence by Saturn driv'n, 
And Ops, ere yet Dictsean Jove was born. 

X. v. 578. 

nor important less 

Seem'd their petition, than when th' ancient pair 
In fables old, less ancient yet than, these, 
Deucalion and chaste Pyrrha, to restore 
The race of mankind drown'd, before the shrine 
Of Themis stood devout. 

XI. v. 9- 

Camoens, on the other hand, brings in these 
divinities as actually existing: he introduces 
them in person performing their several 
offices and functions, and forwarding by 
their agency the whole action of the poem. 
Of course the conduct of the two poets pos- 
sesses not the slightest similarity. Milton 
has beautified his work b} r an appropriate 
embellishment, while Camoens has deformed 
his poem by an unsuitable appendage. 

In proceeding to the third diyision of the 
apologist's defence, (the attempt to prove 
which, by the way, invalidates his former 
arguments) we have to regret that the con-^ 
duct of his authour did not afford him some 
countenance in what he wishes to establish. 
For this point, if proved, would be the only 



228 

pari of his whole defence which would jus- 
tify his conclusions, or palliate the irregula- 
rities of his authour. If in fact he could 
have established that the existence of the 
supernatural beings, introduced in " The 
Lusiad," was admitted by the popular su- 
perstition of the times of Camoens, the poet's 
practice would be not merely exempt from 
censure, but would be pronounced artist- 
like and judicious in following the true prin- 
ciples of fanciful imagery. But it has not 
been established that his machinery had any 
foundation in the credulity of his age. In- 
deed the apologist does not insist on more 
than one or two instances, as when he de- 
clares that, " in the age of Camoens," " Bac- 
chus was esteemed a real daemon." He has 
not however given any proof of this asser- 
tion. But should we even admit these cha- 
racters to have been the objects of popular 
belief, what becomes of the numerous train 
of pagan divinities that still remain unac- 
counted for ; the gods, both celestial and in- 
fernal, and the myriads of marine deities, 
specified and particularized by the poet? 
Were we to allow that the a«encv of the 
" Lusiad" was founded on the belief of Ca- 
moens' age, we must also believe that the 



229 

superstitions of his times were exactly con- 
formable to those of the times of Homer, 
for the entire system of mythology in the 
works of both poets bears the strictest ana- 
logy. The machinery of Camoens not only 
embraces the chief part of both the superiour 
and the subordinate deities of " The Iliad," 
but accurately represents them with the same 
natures and characters, the same attributes 
and economies as described by the Grecian 
poet. 

On the whole therefore, when we sum up 
the several parts of Mr. Mickle's apology, we 
are necessitated to pronounce the conduct 
of his authour equally exposed to censure, as 
when he undertook its justification. His 
arguments, instead of extenuating the poet's 
errours, have rather the unintentional effect 
of adding to his condemnation : since that 
cause must be pronounced totally hopeless 
which has failed in the hands of so able an 
advocate. 

From the considerations already bestowed 
on the intervention of allegorical personages 
in the epopee, we are necessitated to pass a 
like censure on the machinery employed by 
M. de Voltaire in his " Henriade :" in the 
conduct of which an improbability is realized 



230 

as apparently subversive of all poetical ve- 
risimilitude as that which Tasso, in the pas- 
sage formerly quoted, seems to glance at in 
the " Italia Liberata" of Trissino, and 
that which has been condemned in " The 
Lusiad." The chief personage that directs 
the supernatural agency of this poem is 
Discord. This ideal and unsubstantial be- 
ing, who seems to act towards the hero of 
this poem with the same sentiments, that 
Juno held towards iEneas, or Bacchus to 
the Lusiads, is described as being actively 
engaged in opposing the success of Henry. 
She consoles and animates his adversaries 
when depressed, and solicits and brings suc- 
cours to their assistance : she raises insur- 
rections among the inhabitants of Paris, pro- 
cures the assassination of Henry III, and 
with the aid of Love contrives to separate 
Henry for some time from his army. In 
these attempts, which form the chief inci- 
dents of the superiour agency, she is as- 
sisted by many personages of the same de- 
scription as herself. War, Policy, and Fa- 
naticism are strenuous advocates in her be- 
half; and Love and Truth perform also a 
most active and conspicuous part among the 
characters of the poem. 



231 

I cannot think that the French criticks, 
at least those of a superiour rank, and many 
such there are among the writers of that na- 
tion, would be found to pass a sentence^ 
different to what is here pronounced on the 
system of machinery, if they were brought 
to deliver any opinion on the present ques- 
tion. This I think is pretty evident with 
respect to the ingenious and sensible M. Mar- 
montel, who stands foremost in the list of 
their best criticks. It is a remarkable cir- 
cumstance in the preface which he prefixed 
to the " Henriade," that all consideration of 
the machinery is there completely over- 
looked. It is then scarcely necessary to ob- 
serve that this could not have happened in 
a paper drawn up for the express purpose of 
recommending the beauties of that poem, 
had the authour found any thing in this part 
of the work to justify his approbation." 1 

i True it is, that another panegyrist of the same work does not 
express the same cautious silence on this subject. All however 
that he has advanced on the question of allegorical personages, 
does not call a single perfection of such machinery into view, 
which could qualify it to stand as an exception to what I now 
labour to establish. In the cause which he espouses, and which 
is rather gratuitously made out by a few false assumptions, the 
authour is merely led to assign it this less than negative merit : 
" Le merveilleux que l'auteur a employe ne pent choquer aucnn 



232 

I do not even think it would be difficult 
to prove that the Abbe Du Bos would have 
ranged himself on the side of the question 
which is here espoused : and even without 
making many great allowances for what we 
may suppose would have been his senti- 
ments if his work had been written subse- 
quently to that of the " Henriade." On the 
impropriety of founding an epick poem on 
a recent story he expresses himself most un- 
equivocally.* With equal decisiveness does 
he declare it to be his opinion, that in cere- 
monies and exhibitions, the Christian religion 
is equally fertile in fine imagery, as the An- 
tient Mythology. Nor ought I to omit that 
he has given his direct negative to blending 
real and allegorical personages in the same 
composition.' Even when he ceases to have 



lecreur sense. On the subject of the allegories in particular he 
thus delivers himself; " Toutes les allegories qu'on trouve dans ce 
poeme, sont nouvelles ; il y a la politique que habite au Vatican, 
le temple de l'amour, la vraye religion, les vertus, la discorde, 
les vices, tout est anime par le pinceau de M. de Voltaire." r 
Without admitting with a smile the single quality ascribed to 
these inventions, that of being, as they are indeed, perfectly no- 
vel, it may b§ remarked on the whole of this defence, that such 
merit deserves just such a panegyrist. 

r Avant-propos pour la Henriade. 
' Reflex. Critiq. §23. « lb. § 25. 



233 

in view the tacit, justification of some of his 
own countrymen in their use of heathen ma- 
chinery, he delivers himself in language 
which may be adduced as confirming the 
principles while it avoids the conclusions of 
Tasso on this subject. " Que les choses que 
vous inventez pour rendre votre sujet plus 
capable de plaire, soient compatibles avec 
ce que est de vrai dans ce sujet. Le poete 
ne doit pas exiger du spectateur une foi 
aveugle, et qui se soumette a tout. Voila 
comme parle Horace:" — Ficta voluptatis 
causa, &c. 

In this silence of both Italian and French 
criticks on the subject of allegorical agents 
in poetry, I do not forget that the question 
has been determined by a critick of our own 
nation, and established by a mode of proof 
which seems just as unanswerable as that 
adduced from Tasso on the subject of pagan 
machinery, to which we may yield our full 
concurrence, while we differ from the authour 
in the justice of its application. 

" After the operation of immaterial 
agents," says Dr. Johnson, " which cannot 

" Reflex. Critiq. § 24. 



234 

be explained, may be considered those of 
allegorical persons which have no real ex- 
istence. To exalt causes into agents, to in- 
vest abstract ideas with form, and animate 
them with activity, has always been the right 
of poetry. But such airy beings are for the 
most part suffered only to do their natural 
office and retire. Thus Fame tells a tale, 
and Victory hovers over a general, or perches 
on a standard ; but Fame and Victory can 
do no more. To give them any real employ- 
ment, or to ascribe to them any material 
agency, is to make them allegorical no 
longer, but to shock the mind by ascribing 
effects to non-entity. In the Prometheus of 
iEschvlus, we see Violence and Strength, and 
in the Alcestis of Euripides, we see Death, 
brought upon the stage, all as active persons 
of the drama ; but no precedent can justify 
absurdity."" 



u The same writer has given his opinion of the impropriety 
of both these systems of machinery now censured. " Dr. War- 
ton, who excelled in critical perspicuity, has remarked, that 
the preternatural agents (in the Rape of the Lock) are very 
happily adapted to the purposes of the poem. The heathen 
deities can no longer gain attention : we should have turned 
away from a contest between Venus and Diana. The em- 



235 

Bat if Milton is thus culpable, how is M. 
de Voltaire to be defended, whose machine^ 
stands generally exposed to the same charge 
of being absurd and inconsistent ? Could we 
even overlook this great impropriety mani- 
fested in the preternatural imagery employed 
in the " Henriade;"" as a system of epical 
machinery the allegories of that poem seem 
not to possess a single perfection, or to have 
a solitary recommendation. Its improbabi- 
lities not only take from the importance of 
the subject, from being at constant variance 
with the truth of the narrative ; but in con- 
ducting it the author appears wholly to have 
forgotten the express object of all preterna- 
tural intervention in the higher poetry ; since 
that dignity which the action of the poem 
might have acquired from being committed 
to the guidance of higher ministering spirits 
has been completely neglected. And from 
this circumstance alone, independent of what 



ployment of allegorical persons always excites conviction of 
its own absurdity ; they may produce effects, but cannot con- 
duct actions : when the phantom is put in motion it dissolves: 
thus Discord may raise a mutiny; but Discord cannot conduct a 
march, nor besiege a town." 

Johnson's Works.- Vol. XI. p. 1/9- 



236 

may be collected from observing the parti- 
cular style of objection by which he censured 
not only the supernatural agents in " Paradise 
Lost," but those of all poetical compositions, 
we may almost venture to affirm, (how ha- 
zardous soever the assertion may be con- 
sidered) that he was really ignorant of the 
nature and object of epical machinery, no 
inconsiderable part of the art which he pro- 
fessed. And this by the way is a supposi- 
tion that affords some solution of the circum- 
stance of his having originally declared 
himself hostile to its being employed in 
epick poetry, a supposition which is se- 
conded by what he has more than once con- 
fessed, that his nation had little relish for 
such productions. 

The opinion, formerly adduced from 
Tasso, on the impropriety of introducing 
pagan machinery into the epopee, may ap- 
pear to be weakened in its conclusiveness by 
the apparent contradiction given to it by 
his conduct in denominating one of the supe- 
riour agents in his poem after the pagan 
mythology. I allude to his introducing 
Pluto as the chief enemy of the Crusaders, 
who. causes all their difficulties, and retards 



237 

their success. This seeming mixture of 
Pagan and Christian imagery has been se- 
verely censured by the French criticks, who 
have ranked it among the chief of those re- 
puted blemishes, by which they would ob- 
scure the merit of this admirable poet : and 
from them it has been echoed by some of 
their followers on this side of the channel, 
who have too implicitly assented to the con- 
demnation without having examined into its 
justice. As the poet's opinion has been em- 
ployed in confirmation of the principles laid 
down on the subject before us, it will be ne- 
cessary to inquire how far it is supported by 
his practice. And a brief insight into the 
nature of the superstitious belief which was 
prevalent in the ages from which he drew, 
and to which he addressed his subject, 
will, I think, sufficiently free him from the 
imputation of having acted in opposition 
to his own principles, and bring his con- 
duct within the verge of that rule, which 
I have ventured to propose for the gene- 
ral introduction of supernatural imagery. / 
Among the opinions which were most ge- 
nerally admitted by the credulity of the mid- 
dle ages, was the belief of the fallen angels 
being the source of every temptation, that 
seduced mankind from their allegiance to 



238 

the Deity. They were supposed to be the 
propagators of every species of infidelity, 
whether by setting themselves up as the ob- 
jects of worship, or through their insinua- 
tions and rewards bringing mankind within 
their power, and subjecting them to their 
authority. Conformably to this opinion we 
may observe, that in every account which 
gives us an insight into the popular opinions 
on this subject, all those deities who had at 
any time been made the objects of idolatry, 
were ranked among the number of those 
■infernal spirits. The idols of the Jews, and 
all other nations, who fell from their alle- 
giance to the Deity, were represented as no 
other beings than those fallen angels, who 
under various forms had deceived and se- 
duced them from the true worship. And 
among other false gods, the deities of Pagan 
mythology w r ere assigned a conspicuous place. 
Of the belief thus generally extended, Milton 
has taken advantage in his " Paradise Lost," 
where, having summed up the greater num- 
ber of the Hebrew and Gentile idols among 
the inhabitants of Pandemonium, he adds 

The Ionian gods, of Javan's issue, held 

Gods, yet confess'd later than heaven and earth, 

Their boasted parent?. 

P. L. T. v. 508, 



239 

While it was thus generally believed' 
that all these false deities were the evil spi- 
rits, we cannot be surprised that there should 
have arisen much confusion in assigning to 
the latter the respective denominations of the 
former. This we may observe to be parti- 
cularly the case with respect to the various 
titles given to the principal of these spirits, 
to whom almost all the chief names of hea- 
then idolatry have been severally assigned. 
But though these various appellations were 
all attributed to the prince of darkness and 
his rebellious followers, they were chiefly der 
nominated after those beings to whom Pagan 
credulity assigned occupations similar to 
those attributed to the infernal powers by 
superstition. This custom, which originated 
in religious notions inculcated by the sacred 
writers, and became thence propagated 
through the western and eastern world, w 

v See Parad. Reg. B. ii. v. 190. and Parad. Lost. B. i. v. 3QI- 
4/8. Nor are examples wanting of the prevalence of the same 
opinions among the Italian poets : thus Bojardo, 
Skcome alia fucina in Mongebello 
Fabrica tuoni il Demonio Vulcano. 

Orland. Innam. Cant. xvi. st. 21. 
w This assertion is grounded on the express declaration of the 
law, the prophets, and the gospel. With respect to the orien- 



240 

seems to have obtained, down to a late 
period, on account of the following circum- 
stance : it was the prevailing opinion, that 
these evil spirits continued to preserve an 
intercourse with such mortals as were versed 



(al deities being considered devils, we have the testimony of 
Moses and the Psalmist ; " But Jeshuran forsook God, which 
made him, and lightly esteemed the Rock of his salvation. They 
sacrificed unto devils, not to God; to gods whom they knew not, 
to new gods that came newly up." Deut. ch. xxxii. v. 15. 1/. — 
" Insomuch that they worshipped their idols, which turned to 
their own decay ; yea they offered their sons and their daughters 
unto devils. And shed innocent blood, even the blood of their 
sons and their daughters : whom they ofFered unto the idols of 
Canaan," Ps. cvi. v. 36, 37- 

The same is asserted by St. Paul of the Gentile divinities ; 
" But I say, that the things which the Gentiles sacrifice, they 
sacrifice to devils, and not to God," 1 Cor. ch. x. v. 20. Hay- 
ing been hence adopted by the Christian fathers, as may be seen 
in all the writers on magick, it is nothing surprising that it be- 
came a prevailing opinion throughout Christendom. 

But it seems to have been no less generally adopted through- 
out the east, and on authority as highly esteemed by the na- 
tives, as that to which it owes it propagation in Europe. This 
may be at least maintained on the authority of that marvellous 
ritual, which gave a direction to the popular opinion in matters of 
superstition. " What," cried the mother of Aladdin, "was your 
lamp then the occasion of that cursed genie's addressing himself 
rather to me than to you ? — I would rather you would sell it, 
than run the hazard of being again frightened to death by touch- 
ing it; and if you would take my advice you would part also 
with the ring,and not haveany thing to do with genies, who, as our 
prophet has told us, are only devils." Arab. Night, Entcrt. 
Vol. II. stor. of Aladd. 



241 

in the practice of magick and sorcery/ Over 
these arts they were particularly supposed to 
preside : and many of the proficients in the 
occult sciences were supposed to have bound 
themselves by a compact to these evil powers 
to yield themselves up to them after death, 
on condition of beino instructed in their su- 
pernatural knowledge, and being rendered 
a temporary obedience. 

It would be foreign from the present 
design to examine minutely into the ori- 
gin of the superstitions which gave rise 
to this general belief. It is sufficient to 
observe, that these opinions of magical 
power were much, if not chiefly, tinc- 
tured by the antient Pagan notions of en- 
chantment, and by superstitions which from 
the earliest periods were prevalent in the 
east. The former seem to have descended 
from the Romans progressively, and to have 
been naturally blended with the Italian no- 
tions on this subject. The latter appear to 
have been imported from the east as well by 
the settlement of the Moors in the southern 

* Thus Del Rio expresses himself on this subject, quoting one 
of the Christian fathers. " Sic interpretor D. dementis verba 
de angelis peccatoribus ;" " Doeuerunt" ait " homines quod dae- 
mones artibus quibusdam obedire mortalibus id est magicis invo- 
cationibus possent." Disquis. Magic, lib. i, cap. 3. p. 4. 

n 



242 

parts of Europe, as by the various expedi- 
tions undertaken by the Crusaders, where 
they also became blended with the Gothick 
superstitions which originally descended from 
the north of Europe/ In this manner, from 



f To such an alarming degree had those notions spread over 
the southern parts of Europe, and so implicitly were they re- 
ceived by the natives, that it became necessary to restrain their 
growth by general councils. The following extract from a cu- 
rious inquirer into these subjects, gives a faithful picture of the 
state of popular opinion, at this early period in Europe ; and 
shews that it consisted of a strange mixture of Pagan, nor- 
thern and eastern superstitions. " Certaine generall councils, by 
their decrees, have condemned the confessions and erroneous 
credulity of witches to be vain, fantasticall and fabulous. 
And even those, which are parcele of their league, whereupon 
our witch-mongers doo so build ; to wit, their night-walkings 
and meetings with Herodias and the Pagan gods, at which time 
they should passe so farre in so little space on cock-horse ; their 
transubstantiation, their eating of children, and their pulling of 
them from their mothers' sides ; their entering into men's houses, 
through chinks and little holes, where a flie can scarce wring 
out, and the disquieting of the inhabitants : all which are not 
only said by a generall council to be meere fantasticall imagina- 
tions in dreams, but so affirmed by the antient writers. The 
words of the council are these ; It may not be omitted, that cer- 
taine wicked women, following Sathans provocations, being se- 
duced by the illusions of devils, believe and profess that in the 
night-time they ride abroad with Diana, the goddesse of the Pa- 
gans, or else with Herodias, with an innumerable multitude, upon 
certain beasts, and passe over manie countries and nations j in the 
silence of the night, and do whatever these ladies or fairies com- 
mand." Reg. Scott. Myst. of Witchcr. B. iii. ch. 16. 



243 

considering that the Pagan and Saracenick 
opinions of enchantment, combined with the 
popular notions of the fallen angels presiding 
over these arts, we acquire an easy solution 
of the difficulty before us ; and learn the 
cause of the names ascribed to the chief of 
these daemons. Thus the Pagan title of 
Hecate or Proserpine was retained to the 
principal spirit who presided over witchcraft 
and sorcery : and thus the prince of hell was 
in like manner denominated after the Pagan 
mythology. " The husband of this infer- 
nall goddesse," says a popular writer of the 
16th century, " was Pluto, or Dis, so called 
of the name of Riches : as wee know that 
amongst the Hebrews likewise, the divell for 
the same reason is called Mammona. Hee 
was called also aSvjg, not that he is cdfa, that 
is to say, in darknes and invisible; but be- 
cause he was the cause, and authour of the 
death, destruction and desolation of mankind 
by his temptation. And for this cause he is 
termed «&?? of the Hebrew word Ed ; and is 
the very Ophoneus, or Serpent, the sworne ene- 
mie of God. The ^Egyptians did by another 
name call this prince ofdivels Serapis, 1 &c. — 

z P. Le Loier Treat, of Strang. Sights and Appar. p. 15. 



244 

The eastern denomination of this infernal 
chief was the same, and thus the title became 
more generally adopted. " Supra mortales 
omnes Magicis dediti fuere Persae — duos 
credidere deos auctores rerum et dominos ; 
alterum bonum Oromagam vel Oromagdam, 
quern solem censebant, et malum alterum, 
Arimanum sive Plutonem : deinde ab his 
duplicem magicam deduxerunt ; unam qua 
superstitiosd tota cultum falsorum deorum tra- 
debat ; alteram quae naturas intimas rerum 
callebat, quain Persis utramque Apuleius 
adscribit." 

To these causes we may consequently 
attribute the circumstance of the European 
writers giving the name of Pluto to the in- 
fernal spirit in preference to any other of 
his various appellations. And conformably 
to these received opinions, we find that the 
poets, who draw their subjects from those ages, 
and who had occasion to mention the chief 
of the evil spirits, generally adopted this 
title ; and at the same time assigned him all 
those attributes, which, being given to him 



* Del Rio. Disquis. Magic, lib. i. cap. 3. pag. 4. Vid. supr. 
p. 240. n. x. which contains a remark, subjoined by the authour 
to the present quotation. 



245 

by the Pagans, were conformable to their 
own superstitions, and not inconsistent with 
their religious belief. Thus Dante has given 
him the name of Pluto. 

Venimmo al punto, dove si digrada: 
Quivi trovammo Pluto ilgrannemico. 

Infern. Cant. vi. 

And immediately afterwards, in the following 
canto, he joins the names of Pluto and Satan 
together : 

Pape Satan, pape Satan alleppe, 
Comincio Pluto, con la voce chioccia: 

lb. Cant. vii. 

Under the same name he is mentioned by 
Forteguerri : 

ecco d'improviso che si rompe 

La terra, ed esce fuora un fumo nero 
Misto a gran fiamma, che l'aere corrompe. 
Indi Pluton, che men dell' uso e altero 
Senza l'usate sue deformi pompe. 
Quasi lieto s'accosta al Cavaliero 
E gli dice : Signor, grazie infinite 
Ti da dell' opra il Regnator di Dite. 

Ricciardet. Cant. xi. st. 19. 

Chaucer has in like manner thus designated 
the chief daemon. He calls him 

Pluto, that is the King of Faerie. 
And many a ladie in his company 
Folwing his wif, the Quene Proserpina. 

Merch. Tale. 10101, 



246 

Spenser also has adopted the Gothick no- 
tions, thus mixed with the Pagan and Sara- 
cenick ideas, when he mentions the sove- 
reign of the infernal regions. 

By that same way the direfull dames doe drive 
Their mournful 1 eharett, fild with rusty blood, 
And down to Plutoe's house are come alive. 

F. Q. I. v. 32. 

At length they came into a larger space, 
That stretch! itself into an ample playne; 
Through which a beaten broad high way did trace, 
That straight did lead to Plutoe's griesly rayne. 

F. Q. II. vi. 21. 

And he particularly alludes to Pluto and 
Proserpine, when he enters into the descrip- 
tion of Archemago's magical rites : 

Then choosing out few words most horrible, 
(Let none them read) thereof did verses frame, 
With which, and other spells like terrible, 
He bad awake black Pluto's griesly dame. 

F. Q. I. i. 37. 

Milton also has assigned the infernal regions 
an epithet from this Pagan denomination : 

and from the door 

Of that Plutonian hall, invisible 
Ascended his high throne. 

P. L. x. 443. 

When we examine the conduct of Tasso, 
which has incurred so much censure, we shall 



247 

find that he has only accommodated him- 
self to these opinions of his times, and thus 
constructed his machinery according to the 
principles of that branch of the epick sub- 
ject. The character and conduct of Pluto, 
by which title he designates the prince of 
the fallen angels, corresponds most accurately 
with the notions formed of the enemy of 
man. He introduces him as 

II gran nemico de l'umane genti. 

Ger. Cant. iv. st. 1. 



And makes him mention, in his speech to the 
infernal powers, his rebellion against the 
Deity, and his subsequent fall from heaven. 

Tartarei numi, di seder piu degni 

La sovra il sole ond' e '1 origin vostra, 

Che meco gia da i piu felici regni 

Spinse il gran caso in questa orribil chiostra: 

Gli antichi altrui sospetti e i fieri sdegni 

Noli son troppo, e l'alta impresa nostra. 

Or colui regge a suo voler le stelle, 

E noi siam giudicate alme rubelle. 

lb. Cant. iv. st. 9- 

And again, 

Ah non sia ver ; che non sono anco estinti 
Gli spirti in noi di quel valor primiero, 
Quando di ferro, e d'alte fiamme cinti 
Pugnammo gia contra il celeste Impero : 



248 

Fummo (io no'l nego) in quel conflitto vinti : 
Pur non manco virtute al gran pensie.ro : 
Ebbero i piii felici allor vittoria, 
Rimase a noi d'invitto ardif la gloria. 

lb. Cant. iv. st. 15. 

It requires no farther illustration to evince 
the identity of the personage thus described 
with the comnic n enemy of man. The 
striking similarity that exists between the 
character of Pluto, as he is depicted in this 
canto, and that of Milton's Satan, will at 
once shew that the infernal leader mentioned 
by both poets was in every respect the same ; 
though differently designated, in conformity 
to the different belief of the human agents in 
their respective poems. Nor can it, I think, 
admit of any doubt, that the Italian poet 
possessed a licence of assigning, from among 
the number of titles given this being, what- 
ever denomination was most suitable to his 
purposes : and not only that he had a liberty 
of choice, but that he adopted the best line 
of conduct in selecting that name which was 
his most common and most received appel- 
lation. We might go still farther, and, fol- 
lowing the opinion of a late eminent critick, 
insist on the propriety of a poet's adopting 
whatever classical imagery lies within his 



249 

power ; which, when not inconsistent with 
existing opinions, will ever excite and retain 
a lasting admiration. But it is sufficient for 
our purpose to have remarked the conformity 
of Tasso's machinery to the popular opi- 
nions of his characters, as well as to the re- 
ceived belief of his readers : a practice which, 
having been pursued by his great predeces- 
sors, Homer and Virgil, and not being re-* 
jected by our no less eminent countryman, 
may be set down as the most compre- 
hensive principle of machinery, that gives 
verisimilitude to its intervention and pro- 
priety to its imagery. 

We should here, however, return back a 
little, to draw a line of distinction between 
the conduct of Tasso, now attempted to be 
justified, and that of Trissino and Camoens, 
which has been lately condemned. For it 
may be objected, that if the Pagan divini- 
ties had been assigned a place among the 
gothick superstitions, under the idea of their 
being fallen angels, the latter poets should 
have been allowed the privilege of introduc- 
ing them into their compositions. To this it 
may be answered, that if they had merely 
adhered to the opinions thus inculcated, they 
certainly might have claimed such a liberty : 



250 

and had they carried it to no greater extent 
than Tasso has done, they would not have 
been censured. But their conduct has widely 
differed from his : they have adopted the 
heathen mythology in its most perfect form, 
with the qualities and characters which it 
possessed in the times of pure Paganism ; 
while Tasso introduced such of their super- 
stitions only as were consistent with the 
gothick fictions, and those modified by 
subsequent doctrines, and blended with pos- 
teriour opinions. b Of course the whole 
weight of the censure which he has pro- 
nounced on the injudicious conduct of these 
poets falls upon them with its full force, 
while he himself has kept clear of the 
stroke. 

If we were to prosecule our research 
somewhat farther into the opinions which 

b We must here add a further observation, that the Pagan 
divinities, as introduced by Tasso, and those writers, whose au- 
thority we have quoted in his defence, were such only as could be 
represented to support the character and conduct the actions 
attributed to the fallen angels. This can never be supposed 
to be the case with respect to the Jupiter of Camoens, who 
being delineated by the poet with all the power and beneficence 
attached to Providence by his religious belief, can never be re- 
duced to the rank of those subordinate and malignant spirits un- 
der which description alone the Pagan deities were believed, or 
can be allowed, to be classed. 



251 

have been just unfolded, we should per- 
haps be able to account for another part of 
the same poet's conduct, which has met with 
treatment equally harsh as that from which 
he has been now defended. The prevalence 
of the belief that the infernal spirits were 
active in their enmity towards man, but 
particularly towards the Christians ; and also 
of the opinion that the chief means by which 
they accomplished their designs was by their 
presiding over magick, and employing en- 
chanters to execute their hostile intentions, 
will reconcile to propriety the great por- 
tion of this species of imagery that runs 
through the body of his poem. Having 
selected as the agents of his superiour in- 
tervention those beings whose existence was 
alone consistent with the belief of his cha- 
racters, and of his readers, he could as- 
sign to them that species of imagery only, 
which was conformable to the same belief. 
Thus it became incumbent on him to regu- 
late the action of his fable by means of ma- 
gical intervention, which the superstition of 
his age believed to be the chief, if not only 
bond of connection between human opera- 
tion and supernatural interference. And 



252 

thus that great portion of imagery which has 
been censured as foreign to his subject ap- 
pears most essentially connected with it : 
it is found to be, not an extraneous and 
merely ornamental appendage to the poem, 
but the main spring and necessary power 
which forwards or retards its action. 

In this light we may observe that the poet 
has represented the two great supernatural 
events which operate to the disadvantage of 
the Christians, as being instigated by the 
infernal chief, and conducted under his au- 
spices. It is he who inspires the enchanter 
Hidroates with those counsels which seduced 
the Christian leader by the snares of Armi- 
da. c And the magician Ismen, acting imme- 
diately under his influence, creates the en- 
chantment of the forest, which forms the 
other leading point in the machinery of the 
poem, by the assistance and ministry of the 
infernal spirits. The less important inci- 
dents also, that counteract the success of the 
Christians, proceed from the same source : 
and thus this portion of the superiour agency 
becomes connected into one continued sys- 



d Cant. iv. st. 22. 



253 

tern of hostility, conducted by the same ini- 
mical spirits, and directed by the same 
infernal inspiration. 

But if it be asserted , that the poet has 
any where carried the imagery of his fictions 
beyond the bounds of necessity ; if his de- 
scriptions have at times luxuriated into 
romantick exuberance beyond what the 
mere agency of his superiour interference 
required, the following apology may be of- 
fered for his conduct. 

We have seen, in the course of this in- 
quiry, that the several species of composition 
into which the divisions of poetry have 
branched outdare each distinguished by a 
separate and appropriate character. The 
drama, the romance, and the epopee, seve- 
rally address themselves to our imagination 
through a channel peculiar to themselves. 
But though the immediate effects that each 
tends to awaken are respectively distinct, 
they are not incompatible with each other ; 
and as their general object is to excite the 
common end of pleasure, a judicious adop- 
tion of each, but in a subordinate rank to 
the particular character of the composition 
into which they are introduced, will be found 



254 

to give variety to its imagery, and interest 
to its action. Thus the epical character of 
dignity is often, and with great success, ad- 
mitted into dramatick and romantick pro- 
ductions : pity and terrour are found to 
increase the interest of the epick romance ; 
and surprise and admiration to heighten the 
effect of the drama. But in the poetical 
epos such an union is chiefly to be sought 
after. As the most finished work of human 
invention, it should embrace every possible 
mode of contributing to our gratification, 
whether by pursuing those means of delight 
more appropriate to itself, or by adopting 
those which are more appendant to relative 
species of poetry. While in its most predo- 
minent feature it aims at captivating our 
taste, it ought not to neglect those striking 
effects which will at times call our more per- 
turbed emotions into action, or omit those 
engaging touches that occasionally awaken 
our sympathies. With this restriction how- 
ever, that all such adscititions attributes be 
kept subordinate to its proper character : 
that its dignified nature be never interrupted, 
but merely diversified by their introduction ; 
and that it preserve unimpaired its appro- 



255 

priate elevation, though at times softened 
by the pathetick, or inspirited by the sur- 
prising. 

The practice of the best epick writers, 
which gives the highest authority to all cri- 
tical principles, affords an uniform support 
to this opinion. As instances of a mixture 
of pathos with epical composition, many 
descriptions might be deduced from Homer 
and Virgil, beside those narratives, so often 
alluded to, of the lamentations for Patroclus 
and Hector, or the misfortunes of Dido and 
Evander. In referring to the authority of 
the former poet, for an introduction of ro- 
mantick imagery, which is now more imme- 
diately the object of research, we may ad- 
duce the magick bowl of Circe, the allure- 
ments of the Syrens, and the dangers of 
Scylla and Chary bdis. And Virgil, in his 
accounts of the bleeding myrtle, of the Har- 
pies, and of the metamorphosis of the Tro- 
jan ships into sea-nymphs, has paralleled the 
most romantick fictions of the Italian poet. 

And here, by the way, we may offer a 
defence of the allegory of Sin and Death in 
" Paradise Lost," the introduction of which, 
I am venturous enough to hazard my opi- 
nion, is fully justified on the principles now 



256 

displayed. This episode, Avhich is purely of 
the romantick kind, both by its nature as an 
allegory, and by the process of its conduct, 
seems to me perfectly reconcileable to the 
principles of epick poetry, as embracing at 
times a mixture of that imagery which ex- 
cites surprise and admiration. In thus ex- 
pressing my sentiments in favour of its au- 
thour, I do not forget the high judgment from 
which has proceeded so opposite a decision/ 
Yet, though I feel cautious in differing from 
such high authority, I must confess I think 
my dissent sufficiently supported by the 
practice of those eminent masters of the art 
who have been shewn to have adopted a 
conduct similar to that of Milton. And fur- 
ther I must express my opinion, that the 
critick's censure, though perfectly just in its 
fundamental principles^ appears to fail in its 
application to this episode. We must con- 
sider Satan's adventure with Sin and Death 
as but an appendage to the action of the 
poem, and no part of the means by which 
its progress is advanced. Of course the poet 
cannot be said to have " ascribed effects to 
nonentity," such effects at least as the critick's 

■ See page 234. 



257 

reasoning is intended to proscribe, when 
these unsubstantial beings produce none 
which are of consequence to his fable. They 
are merely the agents of an episode, and of 
an episode which is peculiarly calculated to 
produce the effects appropriate to marvellous 
poetry. As such the whole allegory appears 
to me not only consistent with the princi- 
ples of the epopee, but to form one of the 
brightest ornaments of that truly splendid 
poem. 

From the establishment of the points ex- 
amined above on the insufficiency of Pagan 
divinities, and allegorical machinery to form 
the higher agency of poetry, it follows that 
the epick muse receives a further limitation 
in Poetical Licence. On comparing what 
was formerly advanced on the necessity of 
employing machinery in such compositions, 
with what is now declared on the unsuitable- 
ness of heathen mythology, and allegorical 
personages for such a purpose, it appears, 
that there can be no subject suited to epick 
poetry within the whole compass of profane 
history. And t^is is a matter of no small 
regret, since it abounds to an unexampled 
degree in those great characters and splendid 
exploits which are so much adapted to the 

s 



258 

heroick poem ; and since it is so fortunately 
situated with respect to time, being placed in 
a situation that possesses the finest effects of 
light and shade, neither lost in the obscurity 
of a remote aera, nor protruded into the lu- 
minousness of recent period. But with all 
these advantages it becomes as unsuitable a 
model for the artist's imitation as the face 
which is deprived of a feature, or the form 
which is mutilated of a limb. Nor can we, 
as in the comparison, by any means infer that 
the defects of accident or nature may be 
supplied by the poet, as well as by the pain- 
ter. To remedy this defect, and give to a 
mythological subject machinery suitable to 
our religious or superstitious notions, must 
be improper: since between the agents of 
the poem, and so great a portion of the im- 
agery, there could be found no point of 
contact to combine their action, so that the 
movements of the one should be regulated 
by the impulse of the other. This seems to 
have been observed by the ingenious au- 
thour of " Leonidas," who, finding that the 
machinery naturally attached to his subject 
was unsuitable to the nature of his work, 
judiciously resolved on its total suppres- 
sion. 



259 

II. The second point concerning epical 
machinery which has been proposed for dis- 
cussion, affords the following question to be 
solved ; at what periods of the epical action 
is the poet justified in calling in the aid of 
celestial interference ? This point may be at 
once determined on considering the nature 
and object of poetical machinery as it was 
formerly explained. For as its express ob- 
ject is to impart the greatest possible dignity 
to the action which is narrated; in order to 
diffuse this quality through the extent of the 
subject, every incident which gives a new 
turn to the action, which tends either to has- 
ten or retard its advancement, should be un- 
dertaken at the instigation of some superiour 
intelligence, if not conducted by its interpo- 
sition and assistance. 

The justness of this principle is com- 
pletely established by the uniform practice of 
Homer; and this uniformity of practice fully 
justifies the supposition of this inimitable 
artist's having regarded the machinery of the 
epopee in the light in which it is now placed. 
And Plutarch has consequently remarked of 
him that he perfects nothing without the effl- 
cience of his divinities. The great bond of 
connection which gives an unity and con- 



260 

sistency of action to the machinery in the 
Iliad is the Will of Jupiter. Every material 
event which is effected by supernatural 
agency is either accomplished by his imme- 
diate direction, or completed by his permis- 
sion. Influenced by the desire of honouring 
the hero of the poem, all his exertions tend 
to this object ; when he interests himself in 
favour of either of the contending parties, it 
is with the view to revenge his quarrel with 
the Greeks, or to satiate his rage against the 
Troians. 

In this light we behold him, in the open- 
ing of the poem, assenting to the supplica- 
tion of Thetis on behalf of her son ; ratify- 
ing his promise with an oath ; and imme- 
diately engaging actively in his favour. In 
order lo bring the adverse parties into action, 
that the Greeks might suffer by the absence 
of their principal champion, he dispatches 
a dream to Agamemnon, which, inspiring 
the Grecian chief with false hopes of success, 
invites him to arm his troops, and to lead 
them to battle. For the same purpose he 
dismisses Iris to the council of the Trojans, 
who advises the chiefs of this party to assem- 
ble and number their forces. With the same 
object still in view, he sends Minerva to per- 



261 

suade the Trojans lo break the truce which 
had been agreed upon by the contending 
armies. By his command the goddess de^ 
scends to earth, and appearing to Pandarus, 
in the shape of one of Antenor's sons, pre- 
vails on him to discharge an arrow at Me- 
nelaus, by which the truce is broken and 
hostilities again commenced. He now be- 
gins to exert himself more actively in the 
cause of Achilles ; prohibits the other gods 
from assisting either of the hostile armies; 
and, descending from heaven, gives signals 
of victory to the Trojans. The chiefs of this 
party he immediately assists, and excites 
them against their adversaries : he animates 
them by his advice, strengthens them by his in- 
spiration, and encourages them by propitious 
omens. On the other hand he intimidates 
the leaders of the Grecian host, and raising 
a wind embarrasses them by involving them 
in clouds of dust; he depresses their cou- 
rage and throws them into confusion. And 
having thus conducted the Trojans to nearly 
complete success, he retires from the field of 
battle. 

At this time, it may be observed, Nep- 
tune, taking advantage of his absence, as- 
sists and encourages the Greeks. ^Profiting 



262 

still more by the deception practised on Ju- 
piter by Juno, he addresses the Greeks, leads 
them on to battle in person, and turns the 
scale of victory in their favour. Jupiter, 
however, aAvakening in the mean while, per- 
ceives the deceit, and commands Neptune 
to retire from the scene of action. Again, 
exerting himself on the side of the Trojans, 
he reduces the affairs of the Greeks to the 
last extremity, until the anger of Achilles is 
completely satiated ; the whole, nearly, of 
their leaders are wounded, their forces dis- 
mayed, and the enemy, already within their 
entrenchments, carrying destruction to their 
navy. 

So far the will of Jupiter, in pursuance 
of the promise made to Thetis, directs every 
important action which tends to embarrass 
the Greeks, or insures victory to the Tro- 
jans. But the anger of Achilles having, by 
the death of Patroclus, directed itself to- 
wards a different object, Jupiter, still willing 
to honour the hero, seems likewise to change 
his sentiments, and employs his favouring 
influence in coincidence with the wishes of 
Achilles. He now permits the deities, who 
espouse the interest of the Greeks, to de- 
scend to their succour: and by their mini- 



263 

stration every material incident is conducted, 
which takes place, in the course of the ac- 
tion. By the command of Juno, Iris advises 
Achilles to show himself unarmed to the 
Trojans, that the Greeks might obtain some 
respite and refreshment. Minerva covers 
him with her aegis, increases the terrour of 
his voice, and heightens the splendour of his 
appearance. To prevent the Trojans from 
recovering from their panick, until Vulcan 
had completed the armour of Achilles, which 
he had undertaken to forge at the instigation 
of Thetis, Juno hastens the setting of the 
sun. And when they are thrown into confu- 
sion by Achilles, she impedes their flight by 
involving them in darkness. She dispatches 
Vulcan to dry up the waters of the river 
Xanthus, by which the hero was nearly over- 
powered in his pursuit of the Trojans. In 
his combat with Hector he is equally as- 
sisted by Minerva. She advises him to take 
a temporary rest, while she persuades Hector 
to engage him: she succeeds in deceiving 
this hero, by assuming the shape of Deipho- 
bus, and giving him false hopes of assistance, 
leads him to destruction. The last great 
incident which engages the attention of the 
gods is the redemption of the body of Hec- 



264 

tor : seeing his remains exposed to the unap- 
peased rage of his enemy, they commiserate 
his situation, and project his deliverance. 
Jupiter dismisses Thetis to Achilles, to pre- 
vail upon him to resign the body ; he at the 
same time directs Iris to appear to Priam, 
and to instruct him how to recover the body 
of his son. Mercury, by his command, con- 
ducts Priam unobserved through the Grecian 
camp, escorts him to the tent of Achilles, 
and leads him into the presence of the hero. 
Achilles' anger being now extinguished, 
through the interposition of Jupiter, Priam 
obtains his suit, and is conducted home, with 
Hector's body, without interruption or mo- 
lestation. 

After this manner, the whole action of the 
poem is conducted by preternatural agency; 
but it is not the leading incidents, merely, 
which engage the celestial care ; we find the 
aid of the gods employed in those of a subor- 
dinate description. Whenever the poet is 
enabled to impart dignity to any occurrence, 
or elevation to any character, he uniformly 
calls in the aid of celestial intervention. He 
introduces Apollo to raise a plague among 
the Greeks; represents Iris as conducting 
Helen to view the contending armies ; de- 



265 

scribes Thetis as preserving the body of Pe- 
troclus from corruption ; and Boreas and Ze- 
phyrus as exciting a wind to consume his 
funeral pile. To exalt the leading charac- 
ters of his work, the tutelary deities of each 
are always at hand. Minerva never deserts 
Ulysses or Diomede : she encourages and 
advises them ; endows them with strength 
and fortitude. Whether in the battle or the 
council, she guides their motions and directs 
their judgments ; and even when contending 
in the games she insures them success in the 
less elevated objects of their ambition. Venus 
is equally active in assisting Paris, and 
Apollo in encouraging Hector ; Jupiter 
himself takes an active part in the minor 
incidents, and pours down drops of blood 
in honour of his son Sarpedon. 

Thus, it appears, the movements of the 
whole system of Homer's machines are in- 
formed and conducted by celestial interven- 
tion ; and thus his work acquired a general 
elevation from having all its incidents, whether 
of greater or lesser importance, committed to 
the guidance of superiour intelligences. But 
the sublime nature of the imagery, by which 
he has contrived to bring those beings into 
action, imparts to his descriptions a degree 



266 

of magnificence to which his own language 
only is competent to do any justice. Of 
this, we cannot offer a more appropriate 
example than that in which Jupiter ratifies 
his promise to Thetis. 

x "H, x«» xuavfo-ijiv m o(Ppu<ri vevos Kpoviuv' 
A|i*£po<nai S 1 xfx %out<x.i nrtppuxroivTo avotxloty 
Kparoj u.Tc o&avxToio, piycov FeXehifciv 0\v[/.ttov. 

II. I. v. 528-530. 

The idea which he gives of his power is 
replete with the most sublime images, and 
expressed in the most energetick language. 

y KexXute //.fu 7ravT£{ rs $toi 7ra<ra» te S^ajj/ai, 
0<Pp' tiiru to, (At Su/ao? cvi jJiS'Etrtrj xeAeuej. 
Mrtrc tkt Sv SriXziot, 9"£0j royc, pyre tjj ap<r»|i> 
TltipxTW (Jjax£p<ra» tpov tiros' <x>oC »y.<x, irxvTts 
Aiveit , o<Ppa tu^httx t Ajutjiitw rxie spyoc. 
'Ov £ av tyuv onrot.vtvSe B'iuu cSchovrct votktu 
ExS'ovt', n Tpw£<r<T(v ocpriytfAtv » Actva,oio~i, 
TlXyycig om xxra. koit^ov eXtvcrtTut OuXvpirovfo. 

x He spoke, and awful bends his sable brows j 
Shakes his ambrosial curls and gives the nod ; 
The stamp of fate, and sanction of the God: 
High heav'n with trembling the dread signal took, 
And all Olympus to the centre shook. Pope. II. i. 682 6. 

T Celestial states, immortal Gods ! give ear, 
Hear our decree, and rev'rencc what ye hear j 



267 

H /uii/ t\uv p'j\J/w £j Txprxpov yepoivrxf 
TJjAe ixu\\ yw (ZmShttov vtto 'Xpovos wt* (3fpe3 , po», 
EvSx <ri$ripiicci te irvXoa x«» j^aAxEO? 011J05, 
Tc<nrov £VEp9* «m<Tew, octov oupavoj eot' «7ro yxmtC 

TvCtHTBT EWElS' OITOV ElfAt &£U)U XXfTlGTOS XTTXVTUV. 

EjJ 1 ' ays, "BaprurxSt Scot, Ivx ejJWe Tram?, 

Z£ip)|V ^pU(T£J»JV e£ OVpaVoS'EV Xp£jl*iW«UTE;* 

II«VT£f (J' E^a7r7efS'E .Shot Trx<rx\ te Sixivxt. 
AAA' oux av Epu<r««T e£ oupasvo^EV iriSiovSs 
Z»iv' utt«tov prirup, ovf ei pxXx iroKhx xajtAom" 
AAA' (.te J»i x«t syw "Grpo^pwi* e3"eAoij(*« epvcrirxi, 
Autw xiv yxim tpvarxip xvtv te $x\xo<rri' 

The fix'd decree, which not all heav'n can move: 

Thon, Fate, fulfil it, and ye Pow'rs, approve ! 

What God but enters yon forbidden field, 

Who yields assistance, or but wills to yield, 

Back to the skies with shame he shall be driv'n, 

Gash'd with dishonest wounds, the scorn of heav'n : 

Or far, oh far, from steep Olympus thrown, 

Low in the dark Tartarian gulf shall groan, 

With burning chains fix'd to the brazen floors, 

And lock'd by hell's inexorable doors j 

And deep beneath th' infernal centre hurl'd, 

As from that centre to th' sethereal world. 

Let him who tempts me dread those dire abodes, 

And know th' Almighty is the God of gods. 

League all your forces then, ye Pow'rs above, 

Join all, and try the omnipotence of Jove ; 

Let down our golden everlasting chain, 

Whose strong embrace holds heav'n, and earth, and main 

Strive all, of mortal and immortal birth, 

To drag by this the thund'rer down to earth. 

Ye strive in vain 1 If I but stretch this hand, 

I heave the gods, the ocean, and the land ; 



268 

2e»£»v fjbtv xiv tvstnx mpi putv OuAu^tojo 

ArKTCCl/Anv' TIZ h K KUTt [ASTYltfOC. TTXVTX yzvono. 
Tc(T<rOV £j/&) 7T£p( T £JjWI StOOV, TTCfl T ZlfA UvSpUTTW. 

II. viii. 5-27. 

His description of Neptune's approach to 
the scene of action, so celebrated by Longi- 
nus, might be set in competition with this 
passage, as equally poetical in its conceptions 
and numbers, were it not too long for insertion. 
I trust however I shall be pardoned, for in- 
dulging myself in the pleasure of transcrib- 
ing that sublime description, the battle of 
the gods ; which is only parallelled by the 
battle of the Titans in Hesiod, and that of' 
the angels in Milton ; 

* AllT«p £7T£J jtAsS' OfAlXov OAU/ATTIOI JlXwS'OV CLvSptoVy 

ilpro £ fpig xpxripy, Xot,Q<r<rw$' a.vi $ A9wn, 

TtCC(T 0T£ [AtV ZTXpX TXtPftOV OfVXTTIV TElJ££0J SXTOf, 

AAAot' £7r eatrocuv epdivirw jAooxpw aursi " 

At£ J* Apnj ETEpCdS'EK, fpfjtAV*) A«tAjU,7TJ UTSf, 

0£u xxt ax.pora.Tni TroXeug TpwEo-<rt xsXivcov, 



I fix the chain to great Olympus' height, 

And the vast world hangs trembling in my sight ! 

For such I reign, unbounded and above ; 

And such are men and gods compar'd to Jove. 

II. viii. 7-34. 

But when the pow'rs descending swell'd the fight, 
Then tumult rose j fierce rage and pale affright 



269 

AAA<1T£ Trap Xl/AOf»T» 3"£«V £7T» KaAAlXOAwVU. 

X2? tou; «/*(pOTepajf /xaxaps? $eoi orpuvsj/TEf, 
ZujwSaAov, £v <T auToI? EpiJa p'ri^vuvro (3ap£r«i/. 

&t\VW <T ESpWTIKTE 7TaT»)p anTpWD T£ S-£WV T£ 

T^oS-fD* auTAp mftt Hoosdotuv ETjva^E 
ra~«v a7r£(p£«»v, opzuv t* cwrravoc xxpwx. 
ILxvte? J 1 sa-crsicvro 7r«S£? 7re\u7r»Jaxcu iJ/jf, 
Kat xopu<p«i, Tpwftiv T£ 7roA«f, xa< ujjf; A^atwy. 
EJi?£»(r£v ^' U7r£i/£p3'£v ai/a£ avspwv AVJWu?, 
AfKra? ^' ex Spoveu aATO, xa< <&?££' /aji oi UTrspS'E 
ratai/ avapp«^£*£ n«r£i<Jawu £vo<n;£.9"wi/, 
Oixta Je S>»jTcr<r» xa» aS"avaToi<r» (fav£j>! 
2^£p<JaA£, £upw£vra, ra T£ (rruJ'Ecucn S"£o* 7T£p* 
TW<ro; apa xtu7to? wpro Sewk £pj<5* £uwcvtw». 
Hto» jw£u J/ap svscvTtx, IIo(r£»J«wvo? a&ax-rc; 
IrraT' AttoAAoji/ $o7£o<:, £^wv ta Trlcpoivrx.' 
Avra S" EvvuXtoio Sia, ^Aauxw7r<f A^va* 
Hpn (T atn-£o-r>i %pu<r»)AaxaTo? xfAa^tvj), 

Varied each face; then Discord sounds alarms. 
Earth echoes, and the nations rush to arms. 
Now thro' the trembling shores Minerva calls, 
And now she thunders from the Grecian walls ; 
Mars, hov'ring o'er his Troy, his terrours shrouds 
In gloomy tempests and a night of clouds : 
Now thro' each Trojan heart he fury pours 
With voice divine from Ilion's topmost tow'rs ; 
Now shouts to Simoi's from her beauteous hill ; 
The mountains shook, the rapid streams stood still. 
Above, the sire of gods his thunder rolls, 
And peals on peals redoubled rend the poles j 
Beneath, stern Neptune shakes the solid ground ; 
The forests wave, the mountains nod around ; 



270 

Aprtyxi; iQ%iUifXy xourtyvnTVi Ex«toio' 
Avto7 F uimtrro; <r«xos, Epjouwo? Ep^ujf* 
AvraS «p' H^aiiTTOio jtAt^af irvrct(ji.ot (ZccSvfums, 
Ov Hav5oi/ xaAcouin .Jhw, avJptf St Sxa/aai/JpGw. 

II. xx. v. 47-74. 



Thro* all their summits tremble Ida's woods, 

And from their sources boil her hundred floods. 

Troy's turrets totter on the rocking plain, 

And the toss'd navies beat the heaving main. 

Deep in the dismal region of the dead 

Th' infernal monarch rear'd his hoary head, 

Leap'd from his throne, lest Neptune's arm should lay 

His dark dominions open to the day, 

And pour in light on Pluto's drear abodes, 

Abhorr'd by men, and dreadful ev'n to gods. 

Such war th' immortals wage, such horrours rend 
The world's vast concave when the gods contend. 
First silver-shafted Phoebus took the plain 
Against blue Neptune, monarch of the main j 
The god of arms his giant bulk display 'd, 
Oppos'd to Pallas, War's triumphant maid. 
Against Latona march'd the son of May ; 
The quiver'd Dian, sister of the day 
(Her golden arrows sounding at her side,) 
Satumia, majesty of heav'n, defied. 
With fiery Vulcan last in battle stands 
The sacred flood that rolls on golden sands j 
Xanthus his name with those of heav'nly birth, 
But call'd Scamander by the sons of earth. 

II. xx. v. 63-103. 






271 



CHAP. III. 

OP THE HXSTORICK EPOS. 

From what has been already declared on 
the nature of the historical epopee, it must 
be pretty evident that no licence can justify 
the introduction of preternatural agents into 
its composition. The same reasoning, which 
applies to exclude fiction from its incidents, 
extends equally to proscribe that embellish- 
ment which is attained by machinery. With 
a justice of exemplification more striking 
than any application of rule, Voltaire has 
remarked, " Virgile et Homere avoient fort 
bien fait d'amener les Divinities sur la scene. 
Lucain a fait tout aussi bien de s'en pas- 
ser. — Les guerres civiles de Rome etoient 
trop serieuses pour ces joux d'imagination. 
Quel rdle Cesar jouerait il dans la plaine de 
Pharsale, si Iris venait lui apporter son ep6e, 
ou si Venus descendait dans un nuage d'or a 
son secours." And this remark may be ex- 
tended from these particular instances, to every 
fact in which there is room for preternatural 
agency. The expedient, it must be confessed, 



272 

would defeat its own purpose, which, in 
seeking to confer greater importance on real 
events, would make their truth questionable 
by coupling them with fictitious circum- 
stances. 

But the project of giving machinery to 
the historical epos is exposed to still stronger 
objections by being brought to the test of 
that rule which was formerly laid down for 
determining the nature, and fixing the bounds 
of poetical fiction. For, supposing this pro- 
ject realized, it must be evident that the 
marvellous imagery, thus appended to the 
poem, must be so wholly void of verisimili- 
tude, as to procure from the reader no ex- 
tenuation of its improbabilities. Since from 
his knowledge both of the subject and cha- 
racters in the work, if he did not possess a 
perfect conviction, that the whole of these 
imaginary fictions " would have been ques- 
tioned as real, by the characters in the 
poem," he must himself feel a disposition 
" to negative them as false/' not less on ac- 
count of his acquired knowledge, than his 
religious belief. 

Being thus restricted in his imitations to 
a close delineation of nature, the historick 
poet seems to be bound, in conformity to 






273 

the end of his art, to supply by suitable ex- 
pedients that ornament which the more ex- 
alted poetry possesses in right of Poetick 
Licence. This, as was before observed, was 
deemed a requisite by Lucan, in his " Phar- 
salia," where the epical quality of dignity 
has been carried lo a height, not often ex- 
celled in Homer and Virgil. 

Though the historical poet is denied the 
liberty of employing celestial agents, he is 
not interdicted from representing the general 
incidents of his poem, as engaging the divine 
care, and being forwarded by its secret inter- 
position : by this means, as I have already 
remarked, he may add much to the dignity 
and importance of his compositions. He is 
besides afforded in this manner an opportu- 
nity of introducing those details of religious 
ceremonies, and descriptions of that grand 
and awful scenery which is adapted to the 
celebration of such rites ; which, infusing a 
degree of solemnity into his narration, must 
proportionally conduce to heighten its dig- 
nity. 

But more than this, if there is any thing 
grand and awful, or even mysterious and 
dreadful, in the popular superstitions of the 
period from which his subject is taken, the 



274 

poet should omit no opportunity of seizing 
and appropriating these, in order to add to its 
sublimity and improve its beauty. The ex- 
tensive resources which thus offered them- 
selves to heighten the dignity of the historick 
epopee, did not escape the observation of 
Lucan, who has derived through this channel 
some striking imagery which diversifies the 
general character of his narrative, and imparls 
to it the highest splendour. 

Among the superstitions, admitted by Pa- 
gan credulity with implicit belief, may be 
mentioned those miraculous appearances and 
prodigies, which were conceived to precede 
any event of more than ordinary importance, 
and to forebode the approach of every dis- 
astrous occurrence. From this belief Lucan 
has transferred to his "Pharsalia" some of the 
most sublime descriptions ; as may be in- 
stanced from his relation of the prodigies 
which preceded the civil war, and of those 
that occurred previously to the battle of Phar- 
salia. With equal judgment has he availed 
himself of the popular belief of persons revi- 
siting the earth after their decease, intro- 
ducing, from this source of the marvellous, 
the spirit of Julia appearing to Pompey, with 
the most awful effect. The mysteries of priest- 



275 

hood, and the ceremonies of divination, sup- 
plied him with materials equally suited to the 
purposes of poetic description : from these he 
has derived those truly grand descriptions of 
the sacred grove at Marseilles, and of the 
prophetic rites at Delphos, which add so 
much dignity to his poem. But from the 
belief of witchcraft and sorcery, prevalent in 
his age, and particularly attributed to the in- 
habitants of Thessaly, he was furnished with 
some of the most splendid imagery that ever 
adorned an epick subject. 

The following passages, selected from his 
description of the Thessalian enchantresses, 
convey the most impressive idea of their 
power. 

Cessavere vices rerum: delataque longa 
Ha?sit nocte dies: legi non paruit aether. 
Torpuit el praeceps audito carmine mundus; 
Axibus et rapidis impulsos Jupiter urgens 
Miratur non ire polos. Nunc omnia complent, 
Imbribus, et calido producunt nubila Phcebo; 
Et tonat ignaro caelum Jove. Vocibus iisdem 
Humentes late nebulas, nimbosque solutis 
Excessere comis. Vends cessantibus, aequor 
Intumuit: rursus yetitum sentire procellas 
Conticuit turbante Noto: puppimque ferentes 
In ventum tumuere sinus. De rupe pependit 
Abscissa fixus torrens: amnisque cucurrit 
Non qua pronus erat. Nilum non extulit jestas: 



276 

Maeander direct aquas: Rhodanumque morantern 
Praeeipitavit Arar: submisso vertice montes 
Explicuere jugutn. Nubes suspexit Olympus: 
Solibus et nullis Scythicae, cum bruma rigeret, 
Dimaduere nives: impulsam sidere Tethyn 
Reppnlit Haemonidum, defenso littore, carmen. 
Terra quoque immoti concussit ponderis axem, 
Et medium vergens nisu titubavit in orbem. 
Tantae molis onus percussum voce recessit, 
Prospectumque dedit circumlabentis Olympi." 

Phars : Lib: vi. 

a Whene'er the proud inchantress gives command, 

Eternal motion stops her active hand; 

No more heav'n's rapid circles journey on, 

But universal nature stands foredone: 

The lazy god of day forgets to rise, 

And everlasting night pollutes the skies. 

Jove wonders to behold her shake the pole, 

And, unconsenting, hears his thunders roll. 

Now, with a word, she hides the sun's bright face, 

Now blots the wide aethereal azure space: 

Lonely anon she shakes her flowing hair, 

And straight the stormy low'ring heav'ns are fair ; 

At once she calls the golden light again, 

The clouds fly swift away, and stops the drizzly rain. 
In stillest calms she bids the waves run high, 
And smooths the deep, tho' Boreas shakes the sky. 
"When winds are hush'd her potent breath prevails, 
Wafts on the bark, and fills the flagging sails. 
Streams have run back at murmurs of her tongue, 
And torrents from the rock suspended hung. 
No more the Nile his wonted seasons knows, 
And in a line the straight Maeander flows. 
Arar has rush'd with headlong waters down, 
And driv'n unwillingly the sluggish Rhone. 






277 

Their power over animated nature is no 
less extensive. 

Omne potens animal leti, genitumque noeere, 
Et pavet Hsemonias, et mortibus instruit arteis. 
Hos avidse tigres, et nobilis ira leonum 
Ore fovent blando : gelidos his explicet orbes, 
Inque pruinoso coluber distenditur arvo. 
Viperei coeunt, abrupto corpore, nodi ; 
Hnmanoque cadit serpens afflata veneno. b 

Phars. Lib. vi. 

Huge mountains have been levell'd with the plain, 
And far from heav'n has tall Olympus lain. 
Riphaean crystal has been known to melt, 
And Scythian snows a sudden summer felt. 
No longer prest by Cynthia's moister beam, 
Alternate Tethys heaves her swelling stream ; 
By charms forbid, her tides revolve no more, 
But shun the margin of the guarded shore. 
The pond'rous earth, by magic numbers strook, 
Down to her inmost centre deep has shook ; 
Then rending with a yawn, at. once made way, 
To join the upper and the nether day j 
While wond'ring eyes, the dreadful cleft between, 
Another starry firmament have seen. 

Rowe's Phaks. vi. v. 73'9. 

t> Each deadly kind by nature form'd to kill, 
Fear the dire hags and execute their will. 
Lions to them their nobler rage submit, 
And fawning tigers couch beneath their feet ; 
For them the snake foregoes her wint'ry hold, 
And on the hoary frost entwines her fold : 
The pois'nous race they strike with stronger death, 
And blasted vipers die, by human breath. 

lb. v. 777- 



278 

.But in the conduct of one part of his 
work, Lucan is truly admirable : it is such as 
would have done honour to Homer or Virgil 
in the happiness and originality of the concep- 
tion* and the skilfulness and judgment of the 
execution. This great poet foreseeing that the 
truth of his subject would be sacrificed, if he 
introduced preternatural agents into the ac- 
tion of his poem; and that, its truth being sa- 
crificed, its importance must be affected in a 
proportionable degree, not only determined 
on the entire suppression of the established 
machinery of epick poetry, but has contrived 
to profit, by the very circumstances of its re- 
jection. For, taking a just estimate of the 
religious and philosophical opinions of his 
countrymen, and observing that they were 
generally at variance, and that the ad- 
vantage of respectability was decidedly on 
the side of the latter, he has contrived to 
exalt the stoical character above the divine 
nature, as it was represented by his religion, 
and could have been introduced into his 
poem; thus raising it above a standard which 
possessed an intrinsick elevation, he rendered 
it an object of reverence. Of this godlike 
perfection has he drawn his Calo, of whom 
it may be truly said, that he is the superiour 



279 
intelligence that informs the action, and up- 
holds thedignity of the poem. And, regarding 
his character in this light, it is unjust to 
degrade it by a comparison with the Jupiter 
of the Iliad, or any other divinity which 
conducts or elevates the heathen machinery. 

With this view we may perceive, that the 
poet first introduces this character in that 
memorable comparison which he institutes 
between him and the deities: 

Victrix causa diis placuit, sed victa Catoni. e 

Phars. Lib. i. v. 128. 

And in the following speech of Cato to 
Labienus, he has exhibited him with all the 
majesty of a superiour being. 

Ule Deo plenus, tacita. quem mente gerebat, 

Effudit dignas adytis e pectore voces. 

" Quid quaeri, Labiene, jubes? An liber in armis 

Occubuisse velim potius, quara regna videre? 

An sit vita nihil, sed longam differat aetas? 

An noceat vis ulla bono r Fortunaque perdat 

Opposita virtute minas laudandaque velle 

Sit satis, et nunquam successu crescet honestum ? 

Scimus, et hoc nobis non altius inseret Amnion. 

Hasremus cuncti superis, temploque tacente 

• Victorious Caesar by the. gods was crown'd, 
The vanquish'd party was by Cato own'd. 

Rowe's Phari, i. v. 241. 



280 

Nil facimus non sponte Dei: nee vocibus ullis 

Numen eget: dixitque semel nascentibus auctov 

Quidquid scire licet: stereleis nee legit arenas, 

Ut caneret paucis, mersitque hoc pulvere vocera. 

Estne Dei sedes nisi terra, et pontus, et aer, 

J2t ccelum, et virtus? Superos quid qua?riinus ultra? 

Jupiter est quodcunqne vides, quocunque moveris. 

Sortilegis egeant dubii, semperque futuris 

Casibus ancipites : me non oracula certum, 

Sed mors certe facit: pavido fortique cadendum est.. 

Hoc satis est dixisse Jovem." d 

Phars. Lib. ix. 



d Full of the God that dwelt within his breast, 
The hero thus his secret mind express'd, 
And inborn truths reveal'd; truths which might well 
Become ev'n oracles themselves to tell. 
Where would thy fond, thy vain inquiry go ? 
What mystic fate, what secret would'st thou know ? 
Is it a doubt if death should be my doom, 
Rather than live till kings and bondage come. 
Rather than see a tyrant crown'd in Rome ? 
Or would'st thou know of what we value here, 
Life be a trifle hardly worth our care? 
What by old age and length of days we gain, 
More than to lengthen out the sense of pain ? 
Or if this world, with all its forces join'd 
The universal malice of mankind, 
Can shake or hurt the brave and honest mind ? 
If stable Virtue can her ground maintain, 
While Fortune feebly threats and frowns in vain ? 
If Truth and Justice with uprightness dwell, 
And honesty consist in meaning well ? 
If right be independent of success, 
And conquest cannot make it more nor less ? 



} 



281 



■] 



While engaged on this subject, we may turn 
to consider the argument which M. de Vol- 
taire, by a perverted application of this cele- 



Are these, my friend, the secrets thou wouldst know, 

Those doubts for which to oracles we go ? 

'Tis known, 'tis plain, 'tis all already told, 

And horned Ammon can no more unfold. 

From God deriv'd, to God by nature join'd, 

We act the dictates of his mighty mind ; 

And though the priests are mute and temples still, 

God never wants a voice to speak his will. 

When first we from the teeming womb were brought 

With inborn precepts then our souls were fraught 

And then the maker his new creatures taught. 

Then, when he form'd, and gave us to be men, 

He gave us all our useful knowledge then. 

Canst thou believe the vast eternal mind 

Was ere to Syrts or Libyan sand* confin'd ? 

That he should choose this waste, this barren ground, 

To teach the thin inhabitants around, 

And leave his truth in wilds and desarts drown'd: 

Is there a place that God would choose to love, 

Beyond this earth, the seas, yon heav'n above, 

And virtuous minds the noblest throne for love ? 

Why seek»we further then ? behold around, 

How all thou seest does with the God abound, 

Jove is alike in all, and always to be found. 

Let those weak minds, who live in doubt and fear 

To juggling priests for oracles repair; 

One certain hour of death to each decreed, 

My flx'd, my certain soul from doubt has freed, 

The coward and the brave are doom'd to fall ; 

And when Jove told this truth, he told u& all. 

B. ix. v, 954. 



282 

brated passage in the " Pharsalia," urges 
against epick machinery in general; not con- 
fining his deductions to the historical poem 
only, but extending them to the poetical 
epos. " Ceux qui prennent les commence- 
mens d'un art pour les principes de Tart m6me, 
sont persuades qu'un poeme ne saurait sub- 
sister sans divinites parceque l'lliade en est 
pleine; inais ces divinites sont si peu essen- 
tielles au poeme, que le plus bel endroit qui 
soit dans Lucain, et peut-etre dans aucun 
poete est le decours de Caton, dans lequel ce 
Stoique, ennemi des fables dedaigne d'aller 
voirle temple de Jupiter Ammon." e 

The explanation before given of the con- 
duct of the " Pharsalia," not to insist on the 
peculiar character of the Roman people, or 
that of the very remarkable period of their 
history, from which the subject of that poem 
is drawn, must be sufficient to prove that this 
passage affords no general model for the con- 
duct of the epopee. And this consideration 
alone would be sufficient to expose the unfair- 
ness in this reasoning of M. de Voltaire, 
where he fastens not merely upon this poem 
itself, but upon a distinguished passage in it, 



Sur la Poes. Epiq. cb. v. 



283 

as affording an argument against the necessity 
of introducing machinery into epick poetry. 
For though the observation be perfectly just, 
that Lucan is not only grand beyond all pre- 
cedent in this passage, but has, generally, 
maintained a suitable elevation in the whole 
conduct of his poem; it does not follow, nor 
is it the case, that the whole compass of his- 
tory affords another subject capable of being 
similarly conducted to that of the " Phar- 
salia." 

Nor has the critick taken into account 
some circumstances of considerable import- 
ance, in forming a just estimate of the pre- 
sent question; which having arisen from the 
change in manners and opinions since the 
times of the Roman republic, have added as 
much to the dignity of Lucan's description, 
as they have taken from the splendour of the 
antient poetical machinery. The refinement, 
or indeed effeminacy, of modern manners, has 
taught us as much to overrate the sternness of 
that stoical virtue which the poet has under- 
taken to celebrate; as a total revolution in 
religious belief has led us to contemn the 
absurdities which debase that religious sys- 
tem, which he has treated with disregard. 
From these considerations, the entire of Lu~ 



284 

can's work acquires an accidental dignity, 
which contributes not a little to raise the 
passage, selected by M. de Voltaire, above 
what is justified even by its intrinsick merit. 
And of course, this solitary passage, being of 
itself but peculiarly circumstanced, cannot 
establish a precedent to evince the truth of 
his general position, that the poetical epos 
can support a suitable elevation without the 
assistance of machinery. 



285 



CHAP. IV. 

OF THE DRAMA. 

Though the machinery of poetry has ob- 
tained many strenuous advocates, the pro- 
priety of its introduction into dramatick repre- 
sentation has generally been resigned as un- 
tenable. Some even of the most liberal of our 
criticks, have literally ventured to proscribe 
this part of poetical composition, which com- 
prises so considerable a portion of its finest 
imagery, as too improbable to be justified by 
any license of the art. " The tales of faery 
are exploded as fantastick and incredible. 
They would merit this contempt if presented 
on the stage; if they were given as the pro- 
per subjects of dramatick imitation, and the 
interest of the poet's plot were to be wrought 
out of the adventures of these marvellous 
persons. ' " A poet who should now make the 
whole action of his tragedy depend upon 
enchantment, and produce the chief events 

'» ' ■ — *■ 

f Hukd on Chivalry and Romance, Let. X. 



286 

by the assistance of supernatural agents, 
would be censured as transgressing the bounds 
of probability, be banished from the theatre 
to the nursery, and condemned to write fairy 
tales instead of tragedies." 8 

Were these conclusions decisive, the object 
of our immediate inquiry would be wholly ob- 
viated; as it would answer no end to develope 
first principles, or to lay down rules, where 
there could arise no opportunity of applying 
them. It is not necessary to enter into a 
formal refutation of assumptions so arbitrary. 
They rest solely on opinion; have been brought 
to the test of feeling; and have, I think, re- 
ceived acomplete refutation in the success with 
which some modern productions of this kind, 
and of veryinferiour merit,have been received. 
Had this, however, never been the case, there 
might be an answer subversive of such con- 
clusions drawn from that unsated avidity 
with which some established dramas continue 
to be sought after, where the principal events 
are conducted by the ministry of those fan- 
tastick agenls. 

It may not be deemed either incurious or 
unimportant, to offer a few remarks on the 

t Johnson's Works, Vol. III. p. 82. 



287 

origin and cause of this proscription of the- 
atrical machinery, as the inquiry may afford 
some reasons for confirming to the drama its 
right to an appendage, which gives so pow- 
erful an interest to its representations, and 
adds so beautiful an embellishment to its 
scenick decorations. 

However various might have been the 
inducements by which the Grecian dramatick 
writers were led to introduce divine per- 
sonages in the scene, one obvious reason 
assignable for this practice maybe suggested— 
the direct imitation of the epick and mytho- 
logical poets, into which they were led from 
taking the subjects of their compositions 
from such writers. But as the circumstances 
were sensibly different in which these beings 
were placed, on being brought from the in- 
distinct representation of narration to the vi- 
sible disclosure of exhibition, the change was 
made infinitely for the worse. And this disad- 
vantage operating against their first appear- 
ance in the scene, was heightened, in no 
small degree, by the rude mechanism of the 
theatrical apparatus among the ancients. 
Most unskilful must those contrivances have 
been, that worked the machines in which 
their deities made their descent or disap- 



288 

pearance, when the antient drama, from 
wanting an expedient to shift its scenes, be- 
came confined to a tedious unity of place, in 
violation of truth and propriety. 

Under these circumstances, it must be 
supposed both Aristotle and Horace viewed 
the antient theatre; and taking these consi- 
derations into account, their seeming to 
discourage dramatick imagery, may be 
imputed to their disapprobation of certain 
defects, not in the theory, but in the esta- 
blished use of theatrical machinery ; such, 
it may be remarked, were defects for which 
the structure of their theatre led them to 
imagine, there could be no remedy. This is, 
I think, very evident, from the reasons which 
they assign for recommending this appendage 
of the drama to be removed as much as pos- 
sible out of theatrical representations. " It is 
expedient to introduce the marvellous into 
tragick compositions; but the preternatural, 
from which principally the marvellous arises, 
is rather admissible in the epopee, because 
we do not behold the agency which is em- 
ployed in it. h " 



h Aei [iev ev tv rai; rfa.yw$tais itoieiv ro Savpao-rov potWov Si 
tvltyefoa tv tt\ PitQTtoi'ia. ro aKoyov, S\ q {vpfiawei paXwra. ro Sau- 



289 

This passage appears to me rather to re- 
commend than to discourage the employment 
of dramatick machinery on the modern stage. 
Some partiality is professed here for mar- 
vellous intervention in the drama: it is re- 
stricted to a conditional introduction into the 
scene, on account of an objection which has 
now no force, as it has no application to the 
modern theatre. That poetical machinery, 
though admissible in recital, will not so 
well bear to be submitted to visible repre- 
sentation, is only true of stage machinery, 
under the circumstances in which it was 
viewed by Aristotle. When its effects are 
aukwardly displayed to the view, the judg- 
ment receives from the eye an additional 
testimony of the improbability of what- 
ever is the subject of its representation. 
And yet it may be observed, not however 
as exculpatory of the recent abuses of our 
theatre, in its display of what is trifling and 



[j.xcrrov, Six to pj opccv si; tov itpxtlovTx. De Poet. § 43. In tbis 
sentence, it is generally supposed, that Horace concurs in the 
following precept ; which, if urged against the practice of the 
modern stage, admits of the same answer as that of Aristotle. 

Nee deus intersit nisi dignus vindice nodus 

Incident. De Art. Poet, v. ipi. 

U 



290 

childish in such of its decorations, but as 
illustrative of the superiority of the modern 
dramatick mechanism, over any thing of the 
kind which appeared in the antient theatre ; 
that the exhibitions, which so much offended 
the judgment of Horace and Aristotle, might 
be now represented with such skill and splen- 
dour, as to surprize and gratify an enlightened 
audience. And in this consideration, the 
entire efficacy of that trite rule, of the former 
critick, which has been often so triumphantly 
urged against the modern theatre, seems to 
vanish altogether; 

Ne — in avem Progne veitatur Cadmus in anguetn; 
Quoclcunque ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi. 

De Ait. Poet. v. 18S. 

I do not mean to insist here, that the 
edge of this stricture mav be turned from 
affecting the modern drama, by observing 
that these words merely apply to restraining 
the abuse of theatrical machinery; as the 
representation which is here censured by the 
Roman critick, if it be brought to the test of 
that rule which has been laid down for 
proving the justness of poetical fictions, will 
appear as irreconcilable to the belief of the 
poet's readers, as his characters. Waving this 



291 

consideration altogether, it does not appear 
that the objection would apply to this ex- 
hibition, if presented in a modern theatre; 
for in point of that improbability against 
which Horace exclaims, I can observe little 
difference between converting a man into a 
serpent, and a pumpkin into a coach and 
horses, as we have witnessed in our theatres. 
In entering into this defence of theatrical 
machinery, I would thus shelter it from the 
apparent objections of Aristotle and Horace, 
rather by admitting their opinions to be right 
according to circumstances, than by under- 
taking to prove them altogether erroneous. 
And yet I am not unconscious, that with 
respect to refuting one at least, perhaps the 
most formidable of the exceptions urged 
against its propriety, I should not want coun- 
tenance from two poets, both of them no 
common masters of dramatick effect. To this 
character, it remains not for me to establish 
the claims of Corneille and Metastasio, both 
of whom seem to have believed the machine 
of Medea's flying car in Euripides, perfectly 
conformable to verisimilitude,' although sup- 
posed to be condemned by Aristotle. 

' Metastasio Estrat. dell. Poet d'Aristot. cap. XV. 



292 

Yet, while the opinions of Horace and 
Aristotle remained thus misunderstood, and 
were urged with the greatest force against 
dramatick machinery, it preserved its popu- 
larity, superiour to every opposition. Much 
of its success in this respect* it must be owned, 
is to be attributed to the exquisite art with 
which it was informed and directed by Shake- 
speare's magick. And though it may be re- 
garded as a kind of irreverence to start a 
doubt, that the influence of those productions, 
with which he, as it were, enlarged the bounds 
of poetry, must not have proved irresistible; 
or to suggest, that they required any extra- 
neous recommendation, independent of the 
art and chasteness with which they were con- 
structed as fictions: yet, so powerful were the 
disadvantages with which machinery had to 
contend, that it is my opinion, even Shakes- 
peare's magick would have sunk under the 
opposition of that artificial taste and fastidious 
judgment, which we have been led to adopt, 
among other French fopperies, had it not 
received some external support from beautiful 
scenery and artful mechanism. However, 
from the independence which we have evinced 
in shaking off our trammels, and in asserting 
the right of thinking for ourselves in this mat- 



293 

ter, foreigners have been first led to examine, 
and, lastly, to admit the propriety and ele- 
gance of our theatrical imagery. And so 
completely has its triumph over all opposi- 
tion been finally established, that it is curious 
to observe the first just criticism, and warm 
panegyrick of Shakespear's dramatick en- 
chantments, come from the hands of M. de 
Voltaire, k who had not only professed a de- 
cided hostility to poetical machinery in the 
epopee, but who seemed determined to allow 
scarcelyany other merit to the English drama. 
After having adjusted this point, a conve- 
nient opportunity presents itself for discharg- 
ing an engagement in which I stand pledged 
to the reader. 1 As I formerly had occasion 
to observe, 1 " much of the improbability of 
fictitious narrative is justifiable on the grounds 
of the subject not passing in view of the 
reader; for, making in this form a less distinct 
impression on the mind, it becomes propor- 
tionably difficult to delect any deviation from 
truth or nature, which may be attempted in 
such compositions. But in theatrical repre- 
sentation, where an appeal is directly made 



* Dissert sur ]a TYaged. Anc. et Mod. P. iii. 1 See page, 138, 
tn See page 183. 



294 

to the senses, this reasoning can have no 
application : the evidence to which the com- 
position becomes in this case exposed, seems 
rather calculated to counteract than heighten 
its effect in the exhibition. By this circum- 
stance, however, it will eventually appear, 
that the romantick drama is very little, if at 
all effected. The objection would have some 
force, and such an effect might be appre- 
hended from the representation of marvellous 
action and character, if such were addressed 
to the senses merely. The formality of 
scenick representation has, it must be con- 
fessed, a tendency to impress the spectator 
with a sense of the representation's being un- 
real and supposititious; which becomes pro- 
portionably liable to observation, as the sub- 
ject deviates from truth or probability. 
But in this statement it is not taken into ac- 
count, that productions of the romantick 
kind address themselves not merely to the 
senses, but to the emotions. Surprize and 
admiration constitute the end of fanciful 
composition; and over these affections, the 
scenick apparatus exerts as sensible a power, 
as dramatick gesture and action exercise over 
the passions of pity and terrour. On the 
advantage with which the latter may be em- 



295 

ployed, in beguiling the spectator into a tem- 
porary forgetfulness of the want of truth in 
the exhibition, I have already descanted;" 
the former seem not less capable of being 
converted to the same purpose. The splen- 
dour of the spectacle, when it is not carried 
to a childish excess, is highly calculated to 
contribute to our delight; and the seeming- 
improbabilities which we see accomplished by 
the mechanism, together with the secrecy of- 
the means by which so much is effected, tend 
to throw us into a stale of uncollected asto- 
nishment. This is sufficiently attested by 
the feeling which attracts crowds to such ex- 
hibitions ; notwithstanding all that an affec- 
tation of a chaste and severe judgment may 
dispose the majority of those, who sit out such 
representations, to profess to the contrary. 
When the effect which is produced by the- 
atrical niagick transcends our expectation, 
from its greatness or novelty ; when it is con- 
ducted with that art and rapidity of execu- 
tion, which conceals the secret springs of 
the action, and leaves the mind no time to 
calculate on the mode of operation, surprize 
and admiration must be the result of the 

'•*■ — - ■ ■■■■ • « ... . ■ . — , ' — . ... ,_ — .- ? ■ 

» See page 13§, 



296 

exhibition. It is but to little purpose to 
object, that we must be conscious the effect 
produced is but mechanical. We may admit 
the fact, without any detriment to the main 
argument, for even, when regarded in this 
light, the representation is calculated to excite 
our wonder, and contribute to our gratifica- 
tion. The truth is, however, that we are 
not left any time or inclination for indulging 
any such speculations ; and that when they 
do obtrude themselves on the mind, they 
cause no very sensible diminution of our plea- 
sure : as they still leave much to excite our 
surprize, at the art and ingenuity of the con- 
trivance. It may be doubted, on the whole, 
whether the state of mental emotion into 
which we are thrown by the deception, does 
not entitle such exhibitions to a stronger 
claim than any whatever, of approaching 
perfect theatrical delusion, and probably, on 
the very account of having been submitted 
to the scrutiny of the sense, which finds itself 
baffled in detectino-the delusiveness. 

From the determination of this point, the 
transition is easy and regular to an investiga- 
tion of the extent to which a dramatick poet 
may proceed, in making use of machinery. 
And here two points in particular, analogous 



297 

to those which have been already determined 
in discussing the nature of epical imagery, 
require our consideration, as included in the 
question of what limits are prescribed to 
Poetick Licence. 

I. Among the different mythological 
systems founded on religious belief and su- 
perstitious credulity, to the creed of what 
particular people should the poet's choice be 
confined? 

II. At what particular periods is he per- 
mitted to introduce the spiritual agents, thus 
chosen, among the natural incidents of his 
work ? 

I. Of these two questions, the first has 
been sufficiently resolved in the rule which 
has been already laid down for determining 
the nature, and marking out the extent of 
marvellous fiction in the romantick epos. 
The same attention, which has been there 
recommended, and, on account of the reasons 
there suggested, should be paid, in the pre- 
sent case, to the religious scruples of the 
spectator; the same advantage should be 
taken of the superstitious credulity of the 
poetical characters. And a few considera- 

° Seepage 173. 



293 

lions will fully justify the application of such 
a principle to the present exigency. As far 
as the drama is intended to please merely in 
the perusal, for which the poet should ever 
make a suitable provision, the case admits of 
slight consideration ; it is similarly circum- 
stanced with the romantick epos, and may 
be consequently admitted to be subject to 
the same restrictions, and entitled to equal 
immunities. Nor does the case become ma- 
terially altered, when it is not read but repre- 
sented ; the person whom it is intended to 
interest and affect, is possessed of the same 
taste and feelings when he is a spectator, as 
when he becomes a reader : what would gra- 
tify him in the one case, would be likely to 
gratify him in the other. It may be at least 
assumed, that if the rule in question be vio- 
lated, and any thing be represented which is 
either inconsistent with his religious belief, 
or irreconcilable with the credulity of the 
agents in the drama, it must fail, so far at least, 
in its end of producing pleasure, from the 
disregard which is evinced in it to propriety 
and verisimilitude. 

To the practice of Shakespeare we may 
appeal, in order to confirm and illustrate the 
foregoing principles, and to justify their being 



299 

offered as a guide to the poet who introduces 
marvellous machinery into dramatick action. 
Of the four pieces in which he has employed 
supernatural agency, three are constructed 
with an exact conformity to the rule which 
has been laid down for the management of 
celestial intervention in the theatre; the 
fourth, it must be admitted, deviates from it 
in one particular, and has been, in that re- 
spect, generally, though perhaps inconsider- 
ately, censured as defective. The ghost, 
witches, and magician, to whose ministra- 
tion the poet commits the management of 
the supernatural incidents of his romantick 
dramas, were generally admitted by the su- 
perstitions of the different people among 
whom he lays the scene of his action. So far 
consonant- was the belief of the former to the 
superstitious notions of the Danes and Scots, 
of whom the principal characters of his 
"Hamlet" and "Macbeth" are composed, 
that the fable of these dramas is on record in 
the history of both nations/ With equal 
propriety, the principal characters of the 
"Tempest" have been chosen from among 



pBuchan. Rer. Scot. Hist. lib. vii. Sax. Grammat. Hist. 
Dan. lib. iii. 



300 

the Italians. Those who are but moderately 
versed in the poetry of this people, need not 
be informed, that the enchantment employed 
in that drama, was the species of marvellous 
operation most conformable to their vulgar 
superstitions, and most grateful to the po- 
pular opinion. Such notions having been 
originally imported from the East, were pro- 
pagated, at an early period, in Italy, among 
those countries of Europe, where romantick 
poetry was first successfully cultivated. 

It is not to be dissembled that the "Mid- 
summer Night's Dream" affords but a partial 
exemplification of the principles which are 
here inculcated ; the same attention not hav- 
ing been shewn in it to the superstitious preju- 
dices of the poet's characters, as to the popu- 
lar notions of his readers. To this statement, 
I am of opinion, the objections raised against 
this wonderful drama are properly reducible: 
for it seems to afford no support to the asser- 
tion of those cri ticks, who, on its evidence, 
accuse the inimitable authour of confounding 
the Gothick and Gentile superstitions. In 
such a charge, his practice is certainly misre- 
presented ; whieh, to speak of it with the 
utmost rigour, extended merely to grafting a 
Gothiek machine on a Grecian fable. 



301 

And, however inconsistent such a project 
may seem, much may be said in its vindica- 
tion. For it should not be forgotten, that in 
the popular creed, nay in the religious belief 
of Shakespeare's age, the nymphs of the 
classical mythology and the fairies of the 
Gothick imagery were conceived to be the 
same beings ; q having been equally supposed 
to be the apostate spirits r who assumed dif- 
ferent appearances, in different climes and 
ages, in order to impose upon the credulity 
of the vulgar. To those who maintained 
such opinions, it could not have appeared in- 
consistent to describe such beings, as having 
presented themselves in the shape of fairies to 



i " I will now come to treat of the Nymphs of the Ancients, 
which are those whom we at this day doe call Fees, and the Italians 
Fate, in English Fayries." Le Loier. Treat, of Appar. p. 17. 

r " Terrestrial devils are those Lares, Genii, Fauns, Satyres, 
Wood-nymphs, Foliots, Fairies, Robin- good fellows, Trulli, &c. 
which as they are most conversant with men, so they do them 
most harm. — Some put our Fairies into this rank, which have 
been adored with much superstition, with sweeping their houses, 
and setting a pail with cleane water, good victuals and the like, 
and then they should not be pinched, but fxhde money in their 
shoes, and be fortunate in their enterprizes. These are they tknt 
dance on heatb.es and greenes — and leave that green circle which 
we commonly flnde in plain fields." Burt. Anat. of Melanch. 
P. II. S. ii. m. 1. subs. 2. See what has been already advanced 
on this subjeet, page 239. n, w, page 242. n. x , 



302 

the Grecian peasantry; and few, it is to be 
hoped, of those who admit the insufficiency 
of Pagan divinities to gain general attention, 
will condemn the poet who manifested a pre- 
ference to the more probable and fascinating 
enchantments of the national mythology. In 
this respect, at least, Shakespeare appears to 
have acted with judgment, in consulting the 
feelings of his spectators ; for thus he pre- 
sented them with a more probable system of 
machinery, and to the exclusion of one which 
could have afforded them little comparative 
gratification. And in proceeding thus far, 
he seems not to have been destitute of a pre- 
cedent of high poetical authority. Chaucer, 
acting on the same principle, set him the ex- 
ample of naturalizing those images in poetry; 
having maintained similar notions with re- 
spect to the identity of the nymphs and fai- 
ries, he introduced the latter into a Grecian 
story. 

If, however, it be still objected, that the 
poet might have equally consulted the grati- 
fication of his readers, while he escaped every 
imputation of inconsistency, by shifting the 
scene of his action to a different country, and 
referring the date of the transaction to a more 
recent period : still the objection, if admitted, 



303 

must be allowed to lose much of its force, 
when it is properly directed, as it must fall 
partly on the age in which the drama ivas 
written. At this period, nothing of the fan- 
ciful kind was relished among theatrical ex- 
hibitions, which was not founded on, super- 
stitions which were deemed respectable from 
being classical. Of such subjects exclusively 
was the Mask composed, as this species of 
poetry was cultivated by Jonson, and his 
brethren of the " learned sock/' With this 
taste, of course, Shakespeare was in some 
measure necessitated to comply, when, 
charmed with the fine images of his 
native superstitions, he formed the bold 
project of retaining the Pagan subject of 
such poetry, and incorporating with it a 
more probable system of preternatural a- 
gency taken from the Gothick mythology. 
And when we estimate the extraordinary art 
evinced by the poet, in managing a subject 
so disadvantageous^ circumstanced, we shall 
probably discover more in his practice to 
commend than to censure. 

When we argue the question, even on the 
most unfavourable ground, namely, that on 
which the poet is accused of impropriety, in 
adopting a system of machinery, which was 



304 

irreconcilable to the belief of the characters 
in his drama, it promises no unsuccessful 
issue to the cause of Shakespeare. It is, 
indeed, of considerable importance in his de- 
fence, to examine how far the charge really 
extends. The fact is, as may be observed on 
a casual inspection of the production, that 
this impropriety has been avoided by the 
poet, and with a degree of carefulness, which 
proves his practice not to be the effect of 
accident. It is only as they regard the spec- 
tator, that the preternatural agents appear 
in a Gothick character; as they regard the 
agents in the poem, they may be conceived 
fauns as well as fairies: so far the supersti- 
tious notions of the latter really suffered no 
violation, while the popular prejudices of 
the former were virtually consulted in the 
alteration. 

The address of the poet is, indeed, parti- 
cularly deserving of note, in the manage- 
ment of this part of his subject. He con- 
trives to give the occurrences of the drama, 
in the opinion of the human agents employed 
in it, no greater reality than what is pos- 
sessed by a dream : as indeed he entitles the 
production. Some of the leading characters 
he represents as rejecting the whole of the 



305 

transaction as purely fictitious, and ascribing 
the delusion of the parties concerned, to 
natural causes ; 

Thes I never may believe 

These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. 
Lovers, and madmen, have such seething brains, 
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend 
More than cool reason ever comprehends. — 
Such tricks hath strong imagination, 
That, if it would but apprehend some joy, 
It comprehends some bringer of that joy ; 
Or, in the night, imagining some fear, 
How easy is a bush snppos'd a bear? 

Act v. sc. 1. 

When he introduces his elves as address- 
ing some of the principal characters, it is in 
the assumed voice, and borrowed person of 
their associates ; their intervention, in this 
respect, is thus projected by the chief of the 
fairies : 

Ober. Hie, therefore, Robin, overcast the night ; 
The starry welkin cover thou anon 
With drooping fog, as black as Acheron ; 
And lead these testy rivals so astray, 
As one come not within another's way. 
Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, 
Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; 
And sometime rail thou like Demetrius ; 
And from each other look thou lead them thus, 

X 



306 

Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep 
With leaden legs and batty wings, doth creep ; 
Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye, 
Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, 
To take from thence all errour, with his might, 
And make his eye-balls roll with wonted sight. 
When they next wake all this derision 
Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision ; 
And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, 
With league, whose date till death shall never end. 

Act iii. sc. 2. 

It is to an illiterate mechanick alone that 
he represents his spiritual agents as being 
visibly manifested ; yet even he is dismissed 
under the impression that all that he wit- 
nessed is the effect of a dream. 

[As they go out Bottom awakes .] 

<e Hey, ho!— Peter Quince! Flute, the bel- 
lows-mender! Snout, the tinker ! Starveling! God's my 
life! stolen hence, and left me asleep! I have had a 
most rare vision. I have had a dream; — past the wit 
of man to say what dream it was : man is but an ass if 
he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was— 
there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and 
methought I had. — But man is but a patch'd fool if 
he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye 
of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not 
seen; man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to 
conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream 
was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this 
dream." — Act iv. sc. 1. 



307 

Thus it is not to be disputed, that Shake- 
speare has not only had so much respect to 
the superstitious notions of his characters as 
not to offer them any open violence ; but 
from the state of mental delusion in Avhich 
he supposes them placed, his fictions are 
rendered as probable as seemed possible ; 
indeed perfectly so on the part of those who 
may be conceived at all concerned in be- 
lieving them, and with whose opinions they 
are supposed to be at variance. That in 
this process he has left the spectator no rea- 
sonable grounds of complaints, in introduc- 
ing those beings to his observation, which 
were favoured by his popular prejudices, in 
preference to the deities of a mythology 
which he must have rejected as impossible, 
need not be any longer insisted on. Upon 
the whole, while, in vindication of that rule 
which he has here cited to illustrate, it mav 
be observed, that his practice would have 
approached more near to perfection had he 
adhered more closely to its letter : it must be 
at the same time allowed, that he cannot be 
convicted of running counter to its spirit. 

It seems scarcely necessary to prolong 
the consideration of the present question with 
another observation, relative to the impro- 



308 

priety of introducing that machinery into the 
drama which is exclusively adapted to the poe- 
tical epos : although it is that which is most 
consonanttothe belief of the poet's characters, 
as well as his readers or spectators. Whatever 
may be its perfections in this respect, al- 
though it is particularly calculated to awaken 
the spectator's interest, and to excite his 
admiration, it seems to be for ever excluded 
from finding a place on our stages. To 
entertainments of the theatrical kind, we 
can allow, among intellectual amusements, 
no higher praise than that of being elegant 
or rational ; and even to this commendation 
they seem to be but rarely entitled : but the 
sacred beings by whose ministration, we are 
taught to believe, Providence has engaged in 
sublunary affairs, are not to be regarded 
without sentiments of reverence; we cannot 
therefore easily pardon the attempt of him 
who would so far degrade them as to ascribe 
them a part in the action of a fable, which 
was merely intended to promote amusement, 
and on a stage which has been often prosti- 
tuted to the worst purposes. Such a pro- 
ject, if realized, we should condemn as pro- 
fane ; and surely the production on which 
we should pass such a sentence, however it 



S09 

might excite our disgust or horrour, could 
contribute nothing to our gratification. By 
this limitation, however, the drama is not so 
materially affected as may be at first ima- 
gined : such subjects as find a place in it 
generally consist in events of that secon- 
dary importance, that they cannot be sup- 
posed to engage the celestial interference, if 
with any propriety they could be committed 
to the celestial supcrintendance. 

II. From the determination of these 
points I proceed, in order, to the discussion of 
that which was proposed for examination 
in the second place; when a poet is at liberty 
to introduce the spiritual agency among the 
actual incidents of his composition. 

This is a question of which there has 
been offered more than one solution : for 
the mechanism of the antient theatre being 
of that unskilful and inconvenient kind, 
which discouraged the introduction of their 
divinities into the dramatick action, to ex- 
clude them as much as possible from ap- 
pearing in the scene, became a desirable 
object to the poet and the spectator. As 
machinery was on this account scarcely em- 
ployed, unless when there was an absolute 



310 

necessity for its introduction, the antient 
criticks have laid down rules which reduce 
the times of its employment to the fewest 
possible number; and the moderns, with 
an implicit attachment to their authority, have 
taken up their principles, and endeavoured to 
square and apply them to the existing state 
of the drama. 

Among the first of these, Aristotle directs 
that no divinity should be introduced for the 
mere purpose of unravelling a knot in the 
intrigue of the plot. It seems to be a fun- 
damental principle of his criticism, that the 
incidents of the story should unfold them- 
selves in a natural train. To preserve this 
principle inviolable, he directs, that if a 
deity is introduced, for the purpose of mak- 
ing a disclosure, it should be something 
which happens out of the drainatick action ; 
at the same time premising that it should 
be something necessary to the intelligence 
of the subject, and such as a spiritual intel- 
ligence can be supposed to kuow. 8 By the 



s $ocv£fov ovv kou rot; Xvgei; ?wv jauSwv g£ a.vra jituSa $v[j.(ZcU' 
vsiv, holi pj witfsp tv Tjj M^ostcc txiro wyjMtfi, y.at ey fn iXiaJi ta. 
ifipi rov aitoifXav aAAa f>-^%avij ^pvjo-rsov siti ra. e%w fs Spoc^aTQ;, 
Yj o'(Ct, itoo r« ysyovev, a 8% o'tov re zvSpuiitov eicevat, rj o'sa vevspov 
d Ssiract Ttpoocyosevsett:; y.cci a[ye\sici$' ditarra. yap a-r(oSiSo[x.ev fats 



311 

former part of this observation he makes a 
provision, that the contexture of the fable 
shall not be interrupted by marvellous in- 
tervention ; as by the latter he takes precau- 
tion, that a divinity shall not be introduced 
on a trivial or unnecessary occasion. Of 
this principle it may be remarked, that it is 
exemplified in " Hamlet/' and, generally 
speaking, in " Macbeth :" but it extends not 
to the machinery employed in the other dra- 
mas of Shakespeare ; nor indeed, as the 
Abbate Metastasio has observed, to the 
practice of the Greek theatre. So far it 
may be allowed to be a principle too con- 
fined in its application for the general pur- 
poses of poetry ; in which light it seems not 
to have been recommended by its authour. 

The steps of Aristotle, as has been fre- 
quently observed, are followed by Horace, 
who prohibits the use of a machine unless 

for the purpose of solving some important 
difficulty in the action ; 

Nee deus intersit, nisi dignus vindice nodus 

Incident. 

De Art. Poet. v. 19 1. 

S^o<j opxv. Aktyov Se [/.ySev eivai sv voi; -rfpay^xsiv' ei Se ij,yj, £%uj 
■trj rpxycufox;' oiov *o sv fw OiSrtofo ?s ^o^okXesj. 

De Poet. § 28. 



• 312 

It has been observed by the Abbate 
Melastasio on this rule, that it is the best 
which can be given to persons possessed of 
a good judgment; without which, he subjoins, 
every precept is not only useless but may be 
dangerous. With much greater pertinency 
he objects to it on another occasion ; "Ma 
egli non c'insegna quali circostanze debba 
avere questo nodo per meritare d'essere 
disciolto da un nurae." ' Which is a remark 
that throws the question back to its ori- 
ginal difficulty. 

Nor does it appear that the solution, 
which the same critick has offered elsewhere 
of this difficulty, is at all satisfactory. " Io 
non saprei a qual canone, o a quale esempio 
autorevole ottenermi per far uso regolare 
delle machine suddette, se non mi determi- 
nassi a credere, che la grandezza, e la maesta 
d'un soggetto, e l'eroica dignila de' person- 
j,ggi introdotti, e supposli in ispezial cura 
de' numi, vagliano a rendere analogo, e 
connesso questo mirabile col verisimile." " 
But surely something more is requisite, to 
justify the introduction of preternatural 



1 Metastasio. Not. all' Art. Poet, d' Oraz. v. 191. 

u Id. ibid. 



313 

agency into the scene, and to guide the poet in 
the management of it than a rule from which 
it may be inferred that the action would be 
benefited by its exclusion ; for a drama- 
tick subject might be unravelled without 
such aid, in a manner to which the crilick 
has given a decided preference; " E indu- 
bitato, come lo asserisce Aristotele, che quella 
e la piu arlificiosa, e commendabile catas- 
trofe, la quale scioglie il viluppo d'una fa- 
vola, nascendo intrinsecamente dal corso 
della favola medesima : il modo che il po- 
polo, che non l'aspettava, rhiettendo alle 
cose, da lui nel corso della rappresentazione 
ascoltate, e vedute, si trovi convinto, che 
dovea quello scioglimento necessariamente, 
e verisimilmente succedere."" 

It appears to me that the matter is 
brought somewhat nearer an issue by the 
explanation of M. de Voltaire, who proceeds 
on the grounds taken by Horace, and with 
a like reference to the opinion of Aristotle ; 
" Je voudrais que de telles hardiesses ne 
fusent employee que quand el!es servent a 
la fois a mettre dans la piece de 1'intrigue, 
et de la terreur : et je voudrais, sur tout, que 

v Id. ibid. See also Estrat. dell. Poet, d' Aristot. cap* xv. 



314 

rinvention de ces £tres surnaturels ne parut 
pas absolument necessaire. Je m' explique: 
si le noeud d'un poeme tragique est tellement 
embrouille qu'on ne puisse se tirer d'em- 
barras que par le secours d'un prodige, le 
spectateur sent la g6ne oii l'auteur s'est mis, 
et la faiblesse de la resource. II ne voit 
qu'un ecrivain qui se tire mal-adroitment 
d'un mauvais pas. Plus d'illusion, plus 
d'interet. Quodcunque ostendis mihi sic, 
incredulus odi. Mais je suppose que l'au- 
teur d'un tragedie se ful propose pour but 
d'avertir les homines, que Dieu punit quel- 
quefois de grands crimes par des voies extra- 
ordinaires ; je suppose que sa piece fut con- 
duite avec un tel art, que le spectateur al- 
tendit a tout moment I'ombre d'un prince 
assassine, qui demande vengeance, sans que 
cettc apparition fut une resource absolument 
necessaire a une intrigue einbarrassee : je 
dis qu' alors ce prodige, bien menage, f'erait 
un tres erand effet en toute lanyjue, en tons 
terns, et en tout pays." w 

From these desultory remarks the solu- 
tion of the question before us may be ex- 
tracted. The necessity of enforcing the ob- 



">y Voltaire. Dissert, sur la Traged, Anc. et Mod. P. III. 



315 

servance of these precepts on writers, may 
be clearly evinced from a few obvious con- 
siderations arising from the peculiar nature 
of that species of composition in which dra- 
matick action is combined with marvellous 
imagery. In such compositions, as I have 
already observed, powerful emotion becomes 
necessary to sustain the parade and for- 
mality of scenick exhibition. The peculiar 
passions by which they thus aim at securing 
our gratification, are, that interest which 
arises from the artful involution of the plot, 
and that admiration which is excited by the 
marvellous nature of the imagery. And it is 
to preserve these qualities undiminished, 
that a strict regard should be paid to the 
several precepts of the above-cited criticks. 
In order that the drama should not suffer in 
its interest by the introduction of a machine, 
it is expedient to observe the precept of 
Aristotle ; but, in order that it should profit 
by its employment, due attention should be 
paid to the injunction of M. de Voltaire, 
For it is evident, that the artful contexture 
of events in the fable must be impaired 
when a divinity is introduced for the sole 
purpose of unravelling some intricacy in the 
plot ; and that it will be contrariwise im- 



316 

proved, when, by its intervention, more in- 
trigue and emotion are thrown into the dra- 
matick action. But that the admiration, 
excited by the incidents as preternatural 
should remain unimpaired, respect should 
be had to the precept of Horace ; and if the 
poet would turn his machinery to the best 
account, he must find it his object to follow 
the suggestion of the Abbate Metaslasio. 
For here also, if the event is of a trivial kind, 
and unworthy the attention of a divinity ; if 
it be such as lies within the poAver of unas- 
sisted human agency to accomplish, it must 
necessarily excite, by its insignificance, a 
sensation contrary to that of admiration, 
and leave a full impression of inconsistency 
on the mind of the spectator, from the ma- 
nifest disproportion which will be thus placed 
between the end to be effected, and the means 
by which it is accomplished. 

That a machine should be at all used, 
this precept, at the least, should be attended 
to; some intricacy should exist which re- 
quired the solution of a divinity, some diffi- 
culty to be surmounted which required the 
interference of preternatural power. The 
practice of Shakespeare, in any one of his 
dramas, will serve to illustrate and exem- 



317 

plify this principle. The restoration of Pros- 
pero to his dukedom, situated, as he is re- 
presented in the " Tempest," on a desolate 
island, without friends or resources, was not 
to be effected, unless by means of celestial 
intervention ; in employing preternatural 
agency to accomplish that end, the poet 
seems consequently to have acted with the 
justest propriety. Without the interposition 
of some superiour agent the murderer of the 
King of Denmark, and the usurper of his 
throne and bed, could not be detected and 
punished : from these considerations " Ham- 
let" seems to display equal propriety, in its 
use of marvellous imagery, as the " Tem- 
pest." 

But the drama, in which this point is 
secured, has attained but the negative me- 
rit of which machinery is susceptible. It 
still remains for the poet, who has thus esta- 
blished his right to introduce it into his com- 
positions, to employ it with the greatest 
effect. The course which he must follow in 
this case, cannot be more clearly or safely 
marked out, than by examining the conduct 
of Shakespeare in a similar undertaking. 
For this purpose we may select the tragedy 



318 

of " Macbeth," as a model of perfection. 
On the task of analysing this inimitable dra- 
ma I enter with the greater willingness, not 
less from the support which it affords the 
conclusions that I have adopted on the pre- 
sent question, than the honour which it re- 
flects on the genius of its incomparable 
authour. It is a matter of considerable, yet 
grateful, surprise to observe the exact con- 
formity which exists between his practice, 
and the deductions of criticks, with whose 
opinions he could have had no acquaintance. 
And on the other hand it must afford no 
inconsiderable evidence of the justice of 
those deductions to find them confirmed by 
a poet, in whose voice Nature spoke as from 
her oracle. To paint the fatal effects of 
that 

Vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself* 

is the professed end of the tragedy of 
" Macbeth." This is judiciously brought 
about, by representing the hero, as having 
his evil propensity excited by a superstitious 
prognostication: as led on to the perpetration 



Act i. sc. 7 



319 

of the greatest atrocities by a promise that 
was equivocal, and finally precipitated on 
destruction in the pursuit of a good that was 
delusive. But considering the seemingly 
insurmountable obstacles which lay between 
Macbeth and the quiet possession of that 
sovereignty after which he aspired, neither 
the perpetration of the murder which exhi- 
bits the dreadful effects of his ambition, nor 
the succeeding ruin by which it was pu- 
nished on him and his family, could have 
probably taken place, as the plot is con- 
ducted, without the intervention of preter- 
natural power. From hence originated those 
hopes of success which urged the tyrant to 
carry his criminal designs into execution. 
And from hence only could proceed that 
confidence of security which first led him to 
brave approaching danger, and ultimately 
produced that despondency, which dimi- 
nished his power to resist it. 

The fable of the tragedy seems conse- 
quently to resolve itself into two parts; that 
which regards the usurpation of Macbeth, 
and that which regards his fall and punish- 
ment. And both of these have a necessary 
dependance on the preternatural agency. 

In the first instance, the witches ad- 



320 

dress Macbeth by those titles which he is 
afterwards led to usurp, by his ambition ; 

1- Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of 
Glamis ! 

2. Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! hail to thee, thane of 

Cawdor ! 

3. Witch. All hail, Macbeth ! that shall be king 

hereafter. 

Act i. sc. 3. 

And they raise that illusive appearance, 
and utter that ambiguous prophecy, which, 
after he had perpetrated the murder of Dun- 
can, hastened his destruction, by inspiring 
him with a vain security: this is the inten- 
tion avowed by Hecate ; 

Upon the corner of the moon 

There hangs a vaporous drop profound ; 

I'll catch it ere it come to ground : 

And that distilPd by magick slights, 

Shall raise such artificial sprights, 

As by the strength of their illusion, 

Shall draw him on to his confusion : 

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear 

His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear : 

And you all know, security 

Is mortals' chiefest enemy. 

Act iii. sc. ,5. 

And in conformity to this intention is 
the prophecy subsequently uttered to Mac- 
beth, which has the desired effect of in- 






321 

spiring him with that security which occa- 
sioned his fall. 

Macb. How now, you secret, black, and midnight 
hags, 
What is't you do ? 
Witches. A deed without a name. 

Macb. I conjure you, by that which you profess, 

(Howe'er you come to know it,) answer me ; 
To what 1 ask you. 

1. Witch. Speak. 

2. Witch. Demand. 

3. Witch. We '11 answer. 

Say if thou'dst rather hear it from our 
mouths, 

Or from our masters' ? 
Macb. Call them, let me see them. 

1. Witch. Pour in sow's blood that hath eaten 

Her nine farrow ; grease, that's sweaten 

From the murd'rer's gibbet, throw 

Into the flame. 
all. Come, high, or low 

Thyself and office deftly show. 

(Thunder. An apparition of an armed head rises.) 

Macb. Tell me, thou unknown pow'r, — 

1. Witch. He knows thy thought; 

Hear his speech, but say thou nought. 
Appar. Macbeth ! Macbeth ! Macbeth ! beware 
Macduff; 
Beware the thane of Fife. Dismiss me : 
enough. [Descends. 

Macb. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution 
thanks ; 



Thou hast harp'd my fear aright:— but one 
word more: — 
I. Witch. He will not be commanded : here's another 
More potent than the first. 

(Thunder. Jin apparition of a bloody child rises.) 

.■Appak, Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!— 

Be bloody, bold, and resolute : laugh to scorn 
The pow'r of man ; for none of woman born 
Shall harm Macbeth. [Descends. 

Macb. Then live, Macduff; what need I fear of thee? 
But yet I'll make assurance doubly sure, 
And take a bond of fate ; thou shalt not live;— 

(Thunder. An apparition of a child crowned, with a tree 
in his hand, rises.) 

Appar. Be lion-mettled, proud ; and take no care 
Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers 

are : 
Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be, until 
Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill 
Shall come against him. [Descends. 

Macb. That will never be; 

Who can impress the forest; bid the tree 
Unfix his earth-bound root ? sweet bode- 

ments ! good ! 
Rebellious head, rise never, till the wood 
Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac'd Macbeth 
Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath 
To time, and mortal custom. — 

Act, iv. sc. 1. 

Such are the principal incidents which 
constitute the machinery of " Macbeth ;" 



323 

and justify the adoption of such imagery in 
that drama. Our immediate object is to ob- 
serve its influence on the natural train of 
events in the fable : and here it is first de- 
serving of remark, that while the mysterious- 
ness in which the predictions, thus uttered, 
are involved, and the curiosity exciled to 
discover how ihey may be likely to termi-* 
nate, imparts more intrigue to the plot and 
greater interest to the story ; the natural train 
of the incidents, as consisting of events aris- 
ing out of each other by means probable or 
necessary, is not disturbed or impeded. 

This seems generally evident on review-* 
ing the passages already adduced. From 
them it appears, that the witches perform 
nothing themselves, they advise nothing to 
be undertaken, and afford no aid in any 1 
thing that is purposed, which at all contri- 
butes to advance or retard the action. The 
magical rites w r hich they emploj 7 , and the 
obscure prophecies which they utter, have 
no direct tendency of this kind. But the 
same position will be more satisfactorily 
established by an induction of particular 
passages, made for the purpose of shewing 
how entirely the action is forwarded without 
the aid of preternatural- interference. 



324 

For this purpose, it may be in the first 
place observed, that of all that the witches dis- 
close, it is the declaration of a known fact 
alone which operates on Macbeth, and dis- 
poses him to action. Before they hail him 
thane of Cawdor, the spectator is acquainted, 
that he was to be saluted with this title, ac- 
cording to the intention expressed by his 
sovereign. 

Duncan. No more that thane of Cawdor shall deceive 
Our bosorn interest :— Go, pronounce his 

death, 
And with his former title greet Macbeth. 

Act i. sc. 2. 

While the messengers are employed in 
carrying this intention into execution, and 
conveying the intelligence to Macbeth, the 
interview takes place between him and the 
witches ; and it is this circumstance of all 
that they relate which chiefly attracts his 
notice ; 

Macb. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more : 
By Sinel's death, I know, I'm thane of 

Glamis ; 
But how of Cawdor? the thane of Cawdor 

lives, 
A prosperous gentleman ; and, to be king, 
Stands not within the prospect of belief, 



325 

No more than to be Cawdor. Say, from 

whence 
You owe this strange intelligence ? 

Act i. sc. 3. 

But they do not delay to answer this ques- 
tion, or tend to remove any part of the curio- 
sity, excited by their previous salutation, and 
expressed in this interrogation. After a 
short interval, the messengers of Duncan are 
introduced, who discharge their commission 
independent of any thing which is effected 
by the preternatural agency. 

Angus. We are sent, 

To give thee from our royal master thanks ; — 
Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater honour, 

He bade me, from him, call thee thane of 
Cawdor ; 

In which addition, hail, most worthy thane ! 

For it is thine. Ibid. 

"*This declaration is at first received by 
Macbeth with doubt, as one who did not 
rely implicitly on what the witches pro- 
mised. 

Mac 9. The thane of Cawdor lives; why do you 
dress me 
In borrow'd robes ? Ibid. 

His doubts are, however, naturally dis- 
pelled on learning that the thane of Cawdor 



326 

was attainted for rebellion; and this cir* 
cumstance is, as naturally, believed to conT 
tain some confirmation of the former pre- 
dictions, and some earnest of their final 
ac.com plishment ; 

Macb. Glamis, and thane of Cawdor: 

The greatest is behind. — Two truths are told, 

As happy prologues to the swelling act 

Of the imperial theme. — I thank you, gen-; 

tlemen. — 
This supernatural soliciting 
Cannot be ill ; cannot be good :— if ill, 
Why hath it giv'n me earnest of success, 
Commencing in a truth ? I'm thane of 

Cawdor;— Act i. sc. 3. 

Thus it appears that the declaration of a 
known fact, which would have been im-r 
parted in the natural train of events, if not 
marvellously communicated, is all that is 
virtually effected by the higher agents in the 
commencement of this inimitable drama* 
while these beings are indirectly instrumen- 
tal in urging the hero on an enterprize of no 
common magnitude or difficulty ; and while, 
from the artful manner in which they make 
this disclosure, they throw so much of the 
mysterious and terrible into the passionate 
effect of the piece as to awaken the surprise, 
and rivet the attention of the spectator. 



327 

Equally independent of preternatural in- 
terference is the plot laid and carried into 
execution. The declarations of the witches . 
beget at first, on the part of Macbeth, only 
feelings of horrour at the atrocity of the 
crime, by which alone there seemed to be 
any prospect of their predictions being real- 
ized. Shrinking from the idea of invading 
the throne through the blood of his sove- 
reign, he seems to rely upon chance for the 
accomplishment of what they promised ; 

Macc. This supernatural soliciting 

Cannot be ill; cannot be good ; — 

If. good, why do I yield to that suggestion 

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair, 

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, 

Against the use of nature ? Present fears 

Are less than horrible imaginings: 

My thought, whose murder is fantastical 

Shakes so my single state of man, that function 

Is smothered in surmise ; — 

If chance will have me king, why, chance may 

crown me, 
Without my stir. Act. i. sc 3. 

In this light he communicates the parti- 
culars of his interview with the witches to 
his wife ; merely that she " might not lose 
the dues of rejoicing by being ignorant of 



328 

what greatness was promised him." y But 
he seems to be not yet disposed to follow 
up the prognostication ; and she augurs that 
no exertion was likely to follow, on his part, 
from the assurances which he had received 
of future aggrandisement ; 

L. Macb. Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be 
What thou art promis'd : — yet do I fear thy 

nature ; 
It is too full o' the milk of human kindness, 
To catch the nearest way: thou would 'st be 

great; 
Art not without ambition ; but without 
The illness should attend it. What thou 

would'st highly, 
That would'st thou holily ; would'st not play 

false^ 
And yet would'st wrongly win : — 

Act i. sc. 5. 

The project of securing the crown by ex- 
citing him to the murder of Duncan, origi- 
nates with herself, while Macbeth is at a 
distance ; 

L. Macb. Hie thee hither 

That I may pour my spirits in thine ear ; 
And chastise with the valour of my tongue 
All that impedes thee from the golden round, 

y Act i. sc. 5. 



329 

Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem 
To have thee crown'd withal. 

Acti. sc. 5. 

It is accordingly imparted to her hus- 
band, who enters into her designs not without 
some reluctance : nay, she claims the exclu- 
sive privilege of setting the affair in that 
train which was to ensure its success : 

Macb My dearest love, 

Duncan comes here to night : 
L. Macb. And when goes hence ? 

Macb. To-morrow, as he purposes. 
L. Macb. O, never 

Shall sun that morrow see ! — He that's 

coming 
Must be provided for : and you shall put 
This night's great business into my dispatch ; 
Which shall to all our nights and days to 

come 
Give solety sovereign sway and masterdom. 

Ibid. 

But Macbeth still remains undetermined 
and irresolute; 

Macb. We will speak further. 

L. Macb. Only look up clear; 

To alter favour ever is to fear ; 

Leave all the rest to me. Ibid. 

The whole of Macbetrrs conduct exhi- 
bits a violent contest between passion and 
conscience, in which he seems most inclined 



3S0 

to attend to the voice of the latter ; suitably 
to what it suggests, he forms that determina- 
tion, in which he wishes his wife to rest, pre- 
viously to the arguments which she so pow- 
erfully urges to inspire him with greater reso- 
lution; 

Macb. We will proceed no. further in this business : 

He hath honour'd me of late; and 1 have bought 
Golden opinions from all sorts of people, 
Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, 
Not cast aside so soon. Act i. sc. 7. 

It is from this declaration that she takes 
occasion to make that irresistible appeal to 
his affection and his spirit, which stifles the 
last remonstrances of virtue in the sense of 
false honour and false shame. On the ex- 
quisite art which is displayed in the conduct 
of the whole scene I need not here enlarge, 
as it rather exhibits the author's power over 
the passions, than illustrates his address in 
interweaving the plot ; it is merely necessary 
for mjr purpose to observe, that Lady Mac- 
beth is completely successful in undermin- 
ing his best resolutions, and in confirming 
him in the intention of entering into her 
designs; 

Macb. I am settled, and bend up 

Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. 

Ibid. 



SSI 

The resolution thus formed is accordingly 
carried into effect by probable and neces- 
sary means ; so that the plot is not only laid, 
but conducted without the interposition of 
the preternatural agents. On these events, 
it would be foreign from my purpose to 
dwell with minuteness ; it is sufficient to ob- 
serve, that, in the same manner the murder 
of Duncan is perpetrated ; Macbeth is in- 
vested with the sovereignly ; and steps are 
taken to remove those who stood between 
him and the quiet possession of the king- 
dom. In the mean time, Malcolm and 
Macduff, who consult their safety by flight, 
solicit succours from the English court, and 
concert measures for deposing the usurper. 
But Macbeth, placing a reliance in that 
prophecy which was uttered by the witches 
to betray him into a vain security, underva- 
lues the danger which menaces him in this 
direction ; the first intelligence which he re- 
ceives of the approach of the enemy is treated 
by him with disregard. 

Macb. Bring me no more reports ; let them fly all : 
Till Birnam wood remove to Dunsinane, 
I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy 
Malcolm ? 



332 

Was he not born of woman ? The spirits that know 
All mortal consequents, pronounc'd me thus ; 
« Fear not, Macbeth ; no man that's born of 

woman 
Shall e'er have pow'r on thee." — Act 5. sc. 3. 

From this time, the plot begins to unravel 
itself; and in the same natural process as 
that in which it was involved. The first 
part of the predictions of the witches, is 
not unintentionally fulfilled by a command 
given from Malcolm to the soldiers of Si- 
ward, as they advanced to attack the castle 
of Dunsinane ; 

Siw. What wood is this before us ? 

Ment. The wood of Birnam. 

Malc. Let ev'ry soldier hew him down a bough, 

And bear't before him ; thereby shall we shadow 
The numbers of our host, and make discov'ry 
Err in report of us. Ibid. sc. 4. 

And this circumstance when communi- 
cated to Macbeth has that effect which was 
intended by the weird sisters; 

Mess. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, 

I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, 
The wood began to move. 

Macb. Liar and slave. — If thou speak'st false, 

Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, 
Till famine cling thee ; if thy speech be sooth, 
I care not if thou dost for me as much. 

Ibid. sc. 5. 



333 

But the communication gives the first 
shake to his resolution ; 

I pull in resolution ; and begin 
To doubt th' equivocation of the fiend, 
That lies like truth : " Fear not till Birnam wood 
" Do come to Dunsinane ;" and now a wood 
Conies toward Dunsinane. — Arm, arm and out !— 
If this which he avouches does appear, 
There is no flying hence nor tarrying here. 
I 'gin to be a-weary of the sun ; 
And wish th' estate o' the world were now undone. 

Act 5. sc. 5. 

Still, however, the unaccomplished part 
of the witches' prophecy leaves him suffi- 
cient confidence of success or safety, until 
he is inextricably involved in that danger 
which completes his destruction ; 

They have tied me to a stake ; I cannot fly, 
But, bear-like, I must fight the course. — What's he, 
That was not born of woman ? Such a one 
Am I to fear, or none. Ibid. sc. 7. 

With this confidence he engages young 
Siward ; 

Thou wast born of woman.— 

But swords 1 smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, 

Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. 

Ibid. 

And dares Macduff to the conflict : 

Thou losest labour : 

As easy may'st thou the intrenchant air 



534 

With thy keen sword impress, as make me bleed ; 
Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests : 
I bear a charmed life, which must not yield 
To one of woman born. Act 5. sc. 7« 

But he receives that answer, which, remov- 
ing the reliance placed by him in the 
prediction of the witches, affords an easy 
victory to Macduff. 

Macd Despair thy charm ; 

And let the angel, whom thou still hast serv'd, 
Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb 
Untimely ripp'd. 

Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, 
For it hath cow'd my better part of man ! 
And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd, 
That palter with us in a double sense ; 
That keep the word of promise to our ear, 
And break it to our hope. — I'll not fight with 
thee. Ibid. 

From this view of the structure of events 
in " Macbeth" it is perfectly evident, that 
without encroaching on the natural train of 
the incidents, more intrigue may be im- 
parted to the fable by the machinery. But 
while the integrity of the plot is thus pre- 
served without the aid of the higher agency, 
I. am aware, it may be objected, that the 
latter is rendered either wholly useless, or at 
best introduced to very little purpose. It is 



S35 

not to be disputed, that with respect to the 
advancement of what is properly denomi- 
nated the action, this is strictly the case: 
the whole of the preternatural intervention 
might be removed, without any material 
danger to this part of the fable. In the 
tragedy before us, the disclosure made by 
the witches, might be supposed to have pre- 
ceded the commencement of the drama by 
a considerable period ; this, indeed, seems 
to have been requisite in order to render the 
action perfect in itself. But the charge of 
being useless and unnecessary does not lie, 
on this account, against the machinery. 
When we speak of any, even of the natural 
incidents, as being of this description, we 
speak relatively, and with an immediate 
reference to the contexture of the action, as 
moulded and embodied by the poet; in 
this sense many incidents are conceived ne- 
cessary which are merely arbitrary, which, 
in fact, we cannot doubt, he might have 
suppressed altogether, or supplied by others 
which would seem equally indispensable to 
the contexture of his subject. Willi a like 
latitude must we estimate the utility of that 
part of the d rama which constitu tes i the ma* 
chinery ; which, though it (may not be ne- 



336 

cessary in advancing the action, may be 
strictly so in rounding the subject. The justice 
of this observation will be more evident, on 
considering the character of Macbeth, which 
has been sometimes unjustly condemned as 
unnatural ; as exhibiting too great a degree 
of irresolution in carrying into effect, a pro- 
ject in which he was encouraged by preter- 
natural intelligences. This is, however, the 
objection of those only who form but an 
imperfect notion of the author's scope and 
subject. The hero's character, as sketched 
by one who knew it most intimately, is that 
of being, 

not without ambition ; but without 

The illness would attend it. What he would highly, 
That he would hoi ily. Act i. sc. 5. 

He is in fact represented not only as 
ambitious, but as superstitious and brave ; 
from the former of these last named quali- 
ties proceeded that credulity which disposed 
him to attend to the witches, and that scru- 
pulousness which withheld him from attempt- 
ing what they suggested; and from the latter 
that resolution which enabled him finally to 
effect his designs, and yet raised proportion- 
able obstacles to the punishment with which 



337 

his crime was to be avenged. A mind of 
this temperament required the operation of 
powerful stimulants to dispose it to action ; 
to reconcile it to evil in the first instance, 
and to shake its security in the second. 
And herein lay the necessity of applying for 
this purpose to preternatural interference; 
the influence of which, as directed to such a 
purpose, I have already fully demonstrated. 
And let us not forget, here, that it is one 
thing to engage in an action, and another 
to raise the suggestions in which an action 
originates ; that the latter is the utmost which 
is undertaken by the preternatural beings in 
" Macbeth," who of course diminish nothing 
of the artful structure of the fable, while 
they prepare the hero's mind for those im- 
pressions, by which he is influenced in a 
natural manner, and which would have 
proved unavailing, unless through their inter- 
ference. True it is, the poet might have 
wrought out his fable without having re- 
course to such assistance ; but it is not to be 
disputed, that those beings are still neces- 
sary in the only proper sense of this term ; 
in being essential to the poet's plot, as he has 
found it expedient to constitute it. When 
from this partial view of the subject, we 

2 



338 

regard the main end of their introduction, and 
that which is most calculated to strike the 
spectator, we must admit it to be of that 
magnitude which merited the attention, and 
justified the interference of higher beings : 
the suggestions which they raise in the mind 
of Macbeth ultimately tend to the subver- 
sion of a kingdom, and its restoration to the 
lawful sovereign. 



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